The Mysteries of Udolpho
Morano returned in Montoni’s barge, and Emily, as she watched her
gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person,
who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They
arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presence
of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered
to retire to her own apartment.
On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held
with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be _trifled_ with,
and that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly
advantageous to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of
such extent as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated
without further delay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent.
Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to
supplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a
man of Montoni’s disposition, supplication would be equally useless.
She afterwards enquired by what right he exerted this unlimited
authority over her, a question, which her better judgment would have
withheld her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her
nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing
over her defenceless condition.
“By what right!” cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, “by the right
of my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you
do so. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in
a foreign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend;
you know the means; if you compel me to become your enemy—I will
venture to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation.
You may know _I_ am not to be trifled with.”
Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state
of despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all
that remained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her,
at the sound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat
softened by the expression of despair, that fixed her countenance,
spoke in a manner more kind than she had ever yet done. Emily’s heart
was touched; she shed tears, and, after weeping for some time,
recovered sufficient composure to speak on the subject of her distress,
and to endeavour to interest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though
the compassion of her aunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to
be overcome, and her present object was to be the aunt of a Countess.
Emily’s efforts, therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with
Montoni, and she withdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. How
often did she remember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish,
that the Italian had mentioned Montoni’s character with less reserve!
When her mind, however, had recovered from the first shock of this
behaviour, she considered, that it would be impossible for him to
compel her alliance with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat
any part of the marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution
to await Montoni’s threatened vengeance rather than give herself for
life to a man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had
she never even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she
thus resolved to brave.
An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off
Montoni’s attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were
renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice.
There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight
councils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more
reserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own
interests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived,
that something extraordinary was working in his mind.
One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great
agitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to
Montoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home
immediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name. Montoni
obeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of the
circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, with a
part of which he was already acquainted.
A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the
hatred of Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins:
and, as the murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate
had taken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who
had confessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and
the latter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni to consult
on the measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew, that, at this
time, the officers of the police were upon the watch for him, all over
the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was impracticable, and
Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the vigilance of
justice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. He
knew the danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in
his house, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that
he did not think it prudent to refuse him an asylum.
Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and
for whom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his
character.
While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling to
attract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this
obstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his criminal
visitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was to be
celebrated on the following morning. To her repeated assurances, that
it should not take place, he replied only by a malignant smile; and,
telling her that the Count and a priest would be at his house, early in
the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment, by
opposition to his will and to her own interest. “I am now going out for
the evening,” said he, “remember, that I shall give your hand to Count
Morano in the morning.” Emily, having, ever since his late threats,
expected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, was
less shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been,
and she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriage
could not be valid, so long as she refused before the priest to repeat
any part of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her
long-harassed spirits shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his
vengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was not even
perfectly certain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the
altar, and she trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which
seemed unlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to
transgress any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.
While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of
distraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see her,
and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she
repented that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting to her
former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and
entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain had
failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message,
prepared to go down to the Count.
The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the kind
of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were
circumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving, as
they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated his
judgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of complacency
and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained invariably the
same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every insinuating art
he so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured, that she
had nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn and
impressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted him
with an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained
against every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. A
just pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they
flowed from the fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of
her late father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea
of Valancourt.
She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment,
sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at
others, endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare
herself to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following
morning, when all the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni
would be united against her.
The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber
with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She had,
this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual
insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view
of Emily’s distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom
audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother’s orphan
child, whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying
father.
Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost
hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if
she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it,
and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a
marriage, which ought only to make her happy. “I am sure,” said she,
“if I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have
been flattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am
sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly
honoured, and show a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count,
for his condescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how
humbly he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you
give yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he,
I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know
yourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell
you, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so
much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often
tell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such
extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!”
“Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,
than my own,” said Emily.
“O! that is all mere affectation,” rejoined her aunt. “I know that his
flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may
have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I
can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the
Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you
to repent at your leisure, long ago.”
“O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!” said Emily,
with a heavy sigh.
“It is happy for you, that he does not,” rejoined Madame Montoni; “and
what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to
convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to
necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you
like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is
from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault
if you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what
kind of a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your
ambition?”