The Mysteries of Udolpho
smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or
to give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the
subject by saying, “I never trust people’s assertions, I always judge
of them by their actions; but I am willing to try what will be your
behaviour in future.”
Emily, less surprised by her aunt’s moderation and mysterious silence,
than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter,
and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night
in the gardens of La Vallée, and that he had been observed there by
Madame Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to revive
another almost equally so, spoke of the situation of her niece’s
property, in the hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked with
ostentatious pity of Emily’s misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate
the duties of humility and gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible
of every cruel mortification, who soon perceived, that she was to be
considered as a dependant, not only by her aunt, but by her aunt’s
servants.
She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on
which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night,
concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished that she might have
courage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the
simplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attired
with gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to show Emily the
splendour of her château, and to point out the particular beauty, or
elegance, which she thought distinguished each of her numerous suites
of apartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her
homage, and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to
charm her mind by reading, till the hour of dressing.
When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of
timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was
increased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron’s severe observation.
Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance,
and the retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very
interesting object to many of the company; among whom she distinguished
Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M.
Quesnel’s, who now seemed to converse with Madame Cheron with the
familiarity of old acquaintance, and she to attend to them with
particular pleasure.
This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated by
spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed
involuntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly
expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submit
implicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph of
art over nature might have been discerned in it. His visage was long,
and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps, the
spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through his features, that
triumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not the admiration that
leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she knew not
exactly wherefore.
Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost
incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of
conversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of
his wit, but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she
observed, and shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the
gentleness and sweetness of her manners encouraged him to talk, and she
felt relieved when a young lady of the party, who spoke incessantly,
obtruded herself on his notice. This lady, who possessed all the
sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to
understand every subject, or rather there was no affectation in the
case; for, never looking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she
believed she had nothing to learn. She attracted notice from all;
amused some, disgusted others for a moment, and was then forgotten.
This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though
amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire
to the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of
duties.
A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily,
who attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes
entertained, but oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent
talents and knowledge displayed in the various conversations she
listened to, and it was long before she discovered, that the talents
were for the most part those of imposture, and the knowledge nothing
more than was necessary to assist them. But what deceived her most, was
the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every
visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, and
from benevolence as ready. At length, from the over-acting of some,
less accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that, though
contentment and benevolence are the only sure sources of cheerfulness,
the immoderate and feverish animation, usually exhibited in large
parties, results partly from an insensibility to the cares, which
benevolence must sometimes derive from the sufferings of others, and
partly from a desire to display the appearance of that prosperity,
which they know will command submission and attention to themselves.
Emily’s pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace,
to which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a
book to overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she
sat with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts
on Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the
sweet and melancholy songs of her native province—the popular songs she
had listened to from her childhood.
One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad,
she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was the
mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which
fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays
illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and
touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after
the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had
stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine
melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive hour and
the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great
distance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallée, she often
viewed with a sigh—these united circumstances disposed her mind to
tenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had
heard nothing since her arrival at Thoulouse, and now that she was
removed from him, and in uncertainty, she perceived all the interest he
held in her heart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind
and taste so accordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her
much of the arts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety
of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for
the purpose of pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This
possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her
mind with anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful
than that of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an
uncertainty, which she would not have suffered, had her confidence in
her own opinions been greater.
She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses’ feet along a
road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman
passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and
figure, for the twilight did not permit a view of his features,
immediately struck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing
to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed
on without looking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw
him faintly through the twilight, winding under the high trees, that
led to Thoulouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits,
that the temple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and,
after walking a while on the terrace, she returned to the château.
Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play,
or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was
returned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed;
and Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to
the solitude of her own apartment.
On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose
countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she
held out a letter to her.
“Do you know this hand?” said she, in a severe tone, and with a look
that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter
attentively, and assured her, that she did not.
“Do not provoke me,” said her aunt; “you do know it, confess the truth
immediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.”
Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her
back. “O you are guilty, then,” said she, “you do know the hand.” “If
you were before in doubt of this, madam,” replied Emily calmly, “why
did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.” Madame Cheron did not
blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of
Valancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving
reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present
characters did not bring it to her recollection.
“It is useless to deny it,” said Madame Cheron, “I see in your
countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say,
you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my
knowledge, in my own house.”
Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than by
the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had
imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the
aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.
“I cannot suppose,” she resumed, “that this young man would have taken
the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so,
and I must now”
“You will allow me to remind you, madam,” said Emily timidly, “of some
particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallée. I then told you
truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt from addressing
my family.”
“I will not be interrupted,” said Madame Cheron, interrupting her
niece, “I was going to say—I—I—have forgot what I was going to say. But
how happened it that you did not forbid him?” Emily was silent. “How
happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?—A
young man that nobody knows;—an utter stranger in the place,—a young
adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However,
on that point he has mistaken his aim.”
“His family was known to my father,” said Emily modestly, and without
appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.
“O! that is no recommendation at all,” replied her aunt, with her usual
readiness upon this topic; “he took such strange fancies to people! He
was always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually
deceived.”
“Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my
countenance,” said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to
which she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father.
“I called you here,” resumed her aunt, colouring, “to tell you, that I
will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from
young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine—I