The Mysteries of Udolpho
You look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old
master’s smile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the
goodness, that used to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a
friend indeed, when he died!”
Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa
observing, changed the subject. “I heard, mademoiselle,” said she,
“that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took
you abroad; how does she do?”
Emily now mentioned her death. “Alas!” said Theresa, “if she had not
been my master’s sister, I should never have loved her; she was always
so cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he
was a handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?”
Emily was much agitated.
“A blessing on him!” continued Theresa. “Ah, my dear young lady, you
need not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know,
that he loves you? Why, when you were away, mademoiselle, he used to
come to the château and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go
into every room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he
would sit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes
on the floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the
hour together. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because I
told him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at the
pictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung
up by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he
must go back to his brother’s château. And then—”
“It is enough, Theresa,” said Emily.—“How long have you lived in this
cottage—and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return and
live with me?”
“Nay, mademoiselle,” said Theresa, “do not be so shy to your poor old
servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young
gentleman.”
A deep sigh escaped from Emily.
“Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for
that matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself.
But I soon found out what he came to the château about. Then, he would
go into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great
tree there, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand;
but he did not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that
way, and I heard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I
let nobody into the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to
see who it could be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking
to himself about you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and
said he had lost you for ever, for that you would never return for him.
I thought he was out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and
stole away.”
“No more of this trifling,” said Emily, awakening from her reverie: “it
displeases me.”
“But, when M. Quesnel let the château, I thought it would have broke
the Chevalier’s heart.”
“Theresa,” said Emily seriously, “you must name the Chevalier no more!”
“Not name him, mademoiselle!” cried Theresa: “what times are come up
now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,
mademoiselle.”
“Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,” replied Emily, trying
to conceal her tears; “but, however that might be, we shall meet no
more.”
“Meet no more!—not well bestowed!” exclaimed Theresa. “What do I hear?
No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier
Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old
age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master’s house.”
“The Chevalier Valancourt!” said Emily, trembling extremely.
“Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;
but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear
young lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for
a more tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out
in my distress, when you were too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel
refused to do so, and bade me go to service again—Alas! I was too old
for that!—The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave
me money to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live
with me; and he ordered his brother’s steward to pay me, every quarter,
that which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,
whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are
others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he
has hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long
since, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are
not sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier’s goodness?”
“Sorry!” said Emily, and wept the more. “But how long is it since you
have seen him?”
“Not this many a day, mademoiselle.”
“When did you hear of him?” enquired Emily, with increased emotion.
“Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was
but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.
Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and
I begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far
from Estuvière and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this
time; and I have nobody to send so far.”
Emily’s anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely
endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the
château of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately
hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked
for the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt.
But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this
affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her former
faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her
assurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this
errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her
with present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her
home, lamenting, more than ever, that a heart, possessed of so much
benevolence as Valancourt’s, should have been contaminated by the vices
of the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his
kindness to her old servant expressed for herself.
CHAPTER XII
Light thickens, and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood:
Good things of day begin to droop, and drowse;
While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.
MACBETH
Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant
fortnight at the château de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness,
during which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and
were delighted with the romantic wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was
with regret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although
with the hope of being soon united with them in one family; for it was
settled that M. St. Foix, who now attended them into Gascony, should
receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at
Château-le-Blanc. As the road, from the Baron’s residence to La Vallée,
was over some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a
carriage-wheel had never passed, the Count hired mules for himself and
his family, as well as a couple of stout guides, who were well armed,
informed of all the passes of the mountains, and who boasted, too, that
they were acquainted with every brake and dingle in the way, could tell
the names of all the highest points of this chain of Alps, knew every
forest, that spread along their narrow valleys, the shallowest part of
every torrent they must cross, and the exact distance of every
goat-herd’s and hunter’s cabin they should have occasion to pass,—which
last article of learning required no very capacious memory, for even
such simple inhabitants were but thinly scattered over these wilds.
The Count left the château de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an
intention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains,
about half way to La Vallée, of which his guides had informed him; and,
though this was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route
into France, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation, the
Count had no alternative, for it was the only place like an inn, on the
road.
After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves,
about sunset, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abrupt
heights. They had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a human
habitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a distance, the
melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes of
merry music, and presently saw, within a little green recess among the
rocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through a dance. The Count,
who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the misery of
others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simple
pleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish
peasants, the inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were
performing a sprightly dance, the women with castanets in their hands,
to the sounds of a lute and a tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of
France, the music softened into a slow movement, to which two female
peasants danced a Spanish Pavan.
The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he had
witnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, while
it vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the charms of
animation—where affectation so often distorted the air, and vice
perverted the manners—sighed to think, that natural graces and innocent
pleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped
amidst the concourse of polished society. But the lengthening shadows
reminded the travellers, that they had no time to lose; and, leaving
this joyous group, they pursued their way towards the little inn, which
was to shelter them from the night.
The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests
of pine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains,
and gave resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even
this light faded fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous
appearance, invested with the obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent
had been seen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had
displayed every variety of form and attitude, a dark mass of mountains
now alone appeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its
dreadful chasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam
still lingered on the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep
repose of evening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more
awful.
Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to
the murmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the
mountains, and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that
came at intervals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk into
apprehension, when, as the shadows deepened, she looked upon the
doubtful precipice, that bordered the road, as well as on the various
fantastic forms of danger, that glimmered through the obscurity beyond
it; and she asked her father, how far they were from the inn, and
whether he did not consider the road to be dangerous at this late hour.
The Count repeated the first question to the guides, who returned a
doubtful answer, adding, that, when it was darker, it would be safest
to rest, till the moon rose. “It is scarcely safe to proceed now,” said
the Count; but the guides, assuring him that there was no danger, went
on. Blanche, revived by this assurance, again indulged a pensive
pleasure, as she watched the progress of twilight gradually spreading