The Mysteries of Udolpho
humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride was wounded
by this rejection of a member of her family, she disdained to show
resentment otherwise, than by silence.
Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could
neither remove the objections of the one, nor overcome the wishes of
the other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between
them. He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.
In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise
to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house
of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only
repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the
arguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in
remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for,
whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred, which results from both,
that made Montoni shun the man he had injured, he was peremptory in his
refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, which
Valancourt’s letters portrayed, nor awakened to a repentance of his own
injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,
Valancourt’s letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first
moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except
the solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to
Montoni’s château, determined to see him by whatever other means might
be necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards
enquired for Madame, and Ma’amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused
admittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest
with these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of
mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed,
expressed without restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated,
that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she
would allow him an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had
dispatched this, his passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible
of the error he had committed in having given Emily a new subject of
distress in the strong mention of his own suffering, and would have
given half the world, had it been his, to recover the letter. Emily,
however, was spared the pain she must have received from it by the
suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who had ordered, that all letters,
addressed to her niece, should be delivered to herself, and who, after
having perused this and indulged the expressions of resentment, which
Valancourt’s mention of Montoni provoked, had consigned it to the
flames.
Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations
for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some
particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in
which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued the
passion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only the
indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But when Valancourt
learned that she was really to set out in a very few days, and that it
was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every consideration
of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to propose a
clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and
the last day of Emily’s stay at Thoulouse arrived, without affording
Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he
should be allowed a parting interview.
During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk
into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune
sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,
and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and
companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that
were not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering,
when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever,
certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they
could scarcely hear of each other’s existence; and all this in
obedience to the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a
person, who had but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It
was in vain, that she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign
herself to an event, which she could not avoid. The silence of
Valancourt afflicted more than it surprised her, since she attributed
it to its just occasion; but, when the day, preceding that, on which
she was to quit Thoulouse, arrived, and she had heard no mention of his
being permitted to take leave of her, grief overcame every
consideration, that had made her reluctant to speak of him, and she
enquired of Madame Montoni, whether this consolation had been refused.
Her aunt informed her that it had, adding, that, after the provocation
she had herself received from Valancourt, in their last interview, and
the persecution, which the Signor had suffered from his letters, no
entreaties should avail to procure it.
“If the chevalier expected this favour from us,” said she, “he should
have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have
waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it,
and not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to
bestow my niece upon him, and then have persisted in troubling the
Signor, because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about
so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely
presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his
name repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish
sorrows and whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that
dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say
nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see
you are ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it;
aye, even now, in spite of my commands.”
Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to
indulge them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such
as she had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her
chamber for the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed
herself, on entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after
every member of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She
could not divest herself of a belief, that she had parted with
Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise merely from
foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she was
about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return,
together with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it,
she yielded also to an impression, which she mistook for a
presentiment, that she was going from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful
to her imagination, too, was the distance that would separate them—the
Alps, those tremendous barriers! would rise, and whole countries extend
between the regions where each must exist! To live in adjoining
provinces, to live even in the same country, though without seeing him,
was comparative happiness to the conviction of this dreadful length of
distance.
Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,
that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for
something, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had
just strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air
recalled her spirits, and the still moonlight, that fell upon the elms
of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them, and
determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not
relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the château all was
still; and, passing down the great staircase into the hall, from whence
a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she
thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on
with steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows
among the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant
perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her
desire, however, to revisit the pavilion, where she had passed so many
happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive
prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her
apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,
which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the lower
one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that
terminated the avenue.
Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her
distance from the château now increased the fear, which the stillness
and obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that
could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moonlight
showed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while
the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that
bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose to
a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her
distance from the château again alarming her, she paused to listen; the
night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard
only the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver
of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having
reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller
view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were
thrown back, and showed beyond their embowered arch the moonlight
landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually
and indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger
gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her
rays.
Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of
this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to
her fancy. “Ah!” said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself into
a chair by the window, “how often have we sat together in this
spot—often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we
view it together—never—never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each
other!”
Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror—a voice spoke near her in the
pavilion; she shrieked—it spoke again, and she distinguished the
well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported
her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either
to speak. “Emily,” said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in
his. “Emily!” and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had
pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.
“O my Emily!” he resumed, after a long pause, “I do then see you once
again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this
place—these gardens, for many—many nights, with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and
thank Heaven! it has at length succeeded—I am not condemned to absolute
despair!”
Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his
mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent
expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed,
he said, “I came hither, soon after sunset, and have been watching in
the gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now
given up all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself