The Mysteries of Udolpho
Blanche, at length, saw him unclose his eyes, and then heard him
enquire for her; but the joy she felt, on this occasion, was
interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said it would be necessary to
remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, “The banditti, that are
out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, and they will certainly
find us, if we delay. That shrill horn, they know, is never sounded by
their comrades but on most desperate occasions, and it echoes among the
mountains for many leagues round. I have known them brought home by its
sound even from the Pied de Melicant. Is anybody standing watch at the
great gate, my Lord?”
“Nobody,” replied the Count; “the rest of my people are now scattered
about, I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect them together, and
look out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules.”
Ludovico then hurried away, and the Count consulted as to the means of
removing St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, even
if his strength would have supported him in the saddle.
While the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had found in
the fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed that he was
himself wounded, and that his left arm was entirely useless; but he
smiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling.
The Count’s servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, now
appeared, and, soon after, Ludovico. “I think I hear mules coming along
the glen, my Lord,” said he, “but the roaring of the torrent below will
not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will serve the
Chevalier,” he added, showing a bear’s skin, fastened to a couple of
long poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of bringing home
such of the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters.
Ludovico spread it on the ground, and, placing the skins of several
goats upon it, made a kind of bed, into which the Chevalier, who was
however now much revived, was gently lifted; and, the poles being
raised upon the shoulders of the guides, whose footing among these
steeps could best be depended upon, he was borne along with an easy
motion. Some of the Count’s servants were also wounded—but not
materially, and, their wounds being bound up, they now followed to the
great gate. As they passed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at
some distance, and Blanche was terrified. “It is only those villains in
the dungeon, my Lady,” said Ludovico. “They seem to be bursting it
open,” said the Count. “No, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “it has an iron
door; we have nothing to fear from them; but let me go first, and look
out from the rampart.”
They quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing before the
gates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, except
that of the torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among the
branches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now glad
to perceive the first tints of dawn over the mountain-tops. When they
had mounted their mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide, led
them by an easier path, than that by which they had formerly ascended,
into the glen. “We must avoid that valley to the east, my Lord,” said
he, “or we may meet the banditti; they went out that way in the
morning.”
The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found themselves in
a narrow valley that stretched towards the north-west. The morning
light upon the mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually
discovered the green hillocks, that skirted the winding feet of the
cliffs, tufted with cork tree, and ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds
being dispersed, had left the sky perfectly serene, and Blanche was
revived by the fresh breeze, and by the view of verdure, which the late
rain had brightened. Soon after, the sun arose, when the dripping
rocks, with the shrubs that fringed their summits, and many a turfy
slope below, sparkled in his rays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating
along the extremity of the valley, but the gale bore it before the
travellers, and the sunbeams gradually drew it up towards the summit of
the mountains. They had proceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having
complained of extreme faintness, they stopped to give him refreshment,
and, that the men, who bore him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from
the fort some flasks of rich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving
cordial not only to St. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it
gave only temporary relief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his
veins, and he could neither disguise in his countenance the anguish he
suffered, nor suppress the wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where
they had designed to pass the preceding night.
While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark green
pines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means he
had disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands of
the banditti, and how he had contributed so essentially to serve him
and his family, for to him he justly attributed their present
deliverance. Ludovico was going to obey him, when suddenly they heard
the echo of a pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and they rose
in alarm, hastily to pursue their route.
CHAPTER XIII
Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!
BEATTIE
Emily, meanwhile, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of
Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she
could entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the
messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be
at the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.
In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a
melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom
of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey
autumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially
obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the
beech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves.
These, circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year,
gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to
announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than
once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning
home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she
anticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded
them, as to be able to proceed.
While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour,
that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the
wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging, for
a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and
vicissitudes of her late life seemed portrayed in these fleeting
images;—thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for
the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could
be called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had
escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of
those, who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large
fortune, now, when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she
perceived that she was as distant from it as ever. She would have
accused herself of weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense
of the various blessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a
single misfortune, had this misfortune affected herself alone; but,
when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, tears of compassion
had mingled with those of regret, and while she lamented a human being
degraded to vice, and consequently to misery, reason and humanity
claimed these tears, and fortitude had not yet taught her to separate
them from those of love; in the present moments, however, it was not
the certainty of his guilt, but the apprehension of his death (of a
death also, to which she herself, however innocently, appeared to have
been in some degree instrumental) that oppressed her. This fear
increased, as the means of certainty concerning it approached; and,
when she came within view of Theresa’s cottage, she was so much
disordered, and her resolution failed her so entirely, that, unable to
proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the
wind that groaned sullenly among the lofty branches above, seemed to
her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation,
and, in the pauses of the gust, she still fancied she heard the feeble
and far-off notes of distress. Attention convinced her, that this was
no more than fancy; but the increasing gloom, which seemed the sudden
close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, with faltering steps, she
again moved toward the cottage. Through the casement appeared the
cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily
approaching, was already at the door to receive her.
“It is a cold evening, madam,” said she, “storms are coming on, and I
thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.”
Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking
in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with
its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a
countenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended the
occasion of it, but she remained silent. “Ah!” said Emily, at length,
“it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, your
silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;—he is dead!”
“Alas! my dear young lady,” replied Theresa, while tears filled her
eyes, “this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share as
well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven
pleases.”
“He is dead, then!”—interrupted Emily—“Valancourt is dead!”
“A-well-a-day! I fear he is,” replied Theresa.
“You fear!” said Emily, “do you only fear?”
“Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, nor any of the
Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the
Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always
punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him,
since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago,
but he has neither come, nor written, and they fear some accident has
befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I am
old, and might have died without being missed, but he”—Emily was faint,
and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which
she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to
Emily’s lips, continued, “My dear young mistress, do not take it so to
heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope
the best!”
“O no! I cannot hope,” said Emily, “I am acquainted with circumstances,
that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear
what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you
know.”
“Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!”
“O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,” said
Emily, “tell me all, I conjure you!”
“Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for
Richard says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what
he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had
heard it from my lord’s gentleman.”
“What did he hear?” said Emily.
“Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half
of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should
have heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and