The Mysteries of Udolpho
excluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of future
misfortune: she seated herself near the casement, because from thence
she heard voices, though distant, on the terrace, and might see people
pass, and these, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances.
When her spirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she
should mention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and
important motives urged her to do so, among which the least was the
hope of the relief, which an overburdened mind finds in speaking of the
subject of its interest. But she was aware of the terrible
consequences, which such a communication might lead to; and, dreading
the indiscretion of her aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself
with resolution to observe a profound silence on the subject. Montoni
and Verezzi soon after passed under the casement, speaking cheerfully,
and their voices revived her. Presently the Signors Bertolini and
Cavigni joined the party on the terrace, and Emily, supposing that
Madame Montoni was then alone, went to seek her; for the solitude of
her chamber, and its proximity to that where she had received so severe
a shock, again affected her spirit.
She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner. Emily’s
pale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; but she
had sufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, that still
made her shudder, and which was ready to burst from her lips. In her
aunt’s apartment she remained till they both descended to dinner. There
she met the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busy
seriousness in their looks, which was somewhat unusual with them, while
their thoughts seemed too much occupied by some deep interest, to
suffer them to bestow much attention either on Emily or Madame Montoni.
They spoke little, and Montoni less. Emily, as she now looked on him,
shuddered. The horror of the chamber rushed on her mind. Several times
the colour faded from her cheeks, and she feared, that illness would
betray her emotions, and compel her to leave the room; but the strength
of her resolution remedied the weakness of her frame; she obliged
herself to converse, and even tried to look cheerful.
Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would probably
have agitated a weaker mind or a more susceptible heart, but which
appeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to bend up his
faculties to energy and fortitude.
It was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed to
have spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of Cavigni, and
with this gloom was mingled a fierceness such as she had seldom seen
him indicate. Count Morano was not named, and what conversation there
was, turned chiefly upon the wars which at that time agitated the
Italian states, the strength of the Venetian armies, and the characters
of their generals.
After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that the
cavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had since
died of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for his
murderer. The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused, and
then enquired, where Orsino had concealed himself. His guests, who all,
except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself assisted him to
escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the night with such
precipitation and secrecy, that his most intimate companions knew not
whither. Montoni blamed himself for having asked the question, for a
second thought convinced him, that a man of Orsino’s suspicious temper
was not likely to trust any of the persons present with the knowledge
of his asylum. He considered himself, however, as entitled to his
utmost confidence, and did not doubt, that he should soon hear of him.
Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was withdrawn,
and left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not before the
significant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to depart, who passed
from the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for some time, in silence,
which Emily did not interrupt, for her mind was also occupied by
interests of its own. It required all her resolution, to forbear
communicating to Madame Montoni the terrible subject, which still
thrilled her every nerve with horror; and sometimes she was on the
point of doing so, merely to obtain the relief of a moment; but she
knew how wholly she was in the power of Montoni, and, considering, that
the indiscretion of her aunt might prove fatal to them both, she
compelled herself to endure a present and an inferior evil, rather than
to tempt a future and a heavier one. A strange kind of presentiment
frequently, on this day, occurred to her;—it seemed as if her fate
rested here, and was by some invisible means connected with this
castle.
“Let me not accelerate it,” said she to herself: “for whatever I may be
reserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.”
As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy spirits
represented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new
suggestion, when she considered how far distant she was from her native
country, from her little peaceful home, and from her only friend—how
remote was her hope of happiness, how feeble the expectation of again
seeing him! Yet the idea of Valancourt, and her confidence in his
faithful love, had hitherto been her only solace, and she struggled
hard to retain them. A few tears of agony started to her eyes, which
she turned aside to conceal.
While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some peasants,
at a little distance, were seen examining a breach, before which lay a
heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old cannon, that
appeared to have fallen from its station above. Madame Montoni stopped
to speak to the men, and enquired what they were going to do. “To
repair the fortifications, your ladyship,” said one of them; a labour
which she was somewhat surprised, that Montoni should think necessary,
particularly since he had never spoken of the castle, as of a place, at
which he meant to reside for any considerable time; but she passed on
towards a lofty arch, that led from the south to the east rampart, and
which adjoined the castle, on one side, while, on the other, it
supported a small watch-tower, that entirely commanded the deep valley
below. As she approached this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along
the woody descent of a distant mountain, a long troop of horse and
foot, whom she knew to be soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes
and other arms, for the distance did not allow her to discover the
colour of their liveries. As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the
woods into the valley, but the train still continued to pour over the
remote summit of the mountain, in endless succession; while, in the
front, the military uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders,
riding first, and seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of
those that followed, at length, approached very near to the castle.
Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and alarmed
Madame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who were
employed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the rock
was less abrupt than elsewhere. These men could give no satisfactory
answers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them, gazed in stupid
astonishment upon the long cavalcade. Madame Montoni, then thinking it
necessary to communicate further the object of her alarm, sent Emily to
say, that she wished to speak to Montoni; an errand her niece did not
approve, for she dreaded his frowns, which she knew this message would
provoke; but she obeyed in silence.
As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she
heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment,
trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would
occasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then
ventured to open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and looked
at her, without speaking, she delivered her message.
“Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,” said he.
Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm.
Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but,
these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length proceeded
to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a legion of
_condottieri_, on their march towards Modena.
One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another
wound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still
lingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so that
the great length of the procession seemed to include a whole army.
While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard the sound
of trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then others,
answering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to the shrill
blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni explained the
signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which meant
nothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of arms they
bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had the
satisfaction to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon
his castle. He did not, however, leave the rampart, till the bases of
the mountains had shut them from his view, and the last murmur of the
trumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspirited
by this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all the fire of their
temper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence.
Emily’s mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock, to
endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the
ramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-room,
whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from her late
experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and mysterious
recesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almost her only
retreat, and here she lingered, till the grey haze of evening was again
spread over the scene.
The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in her
apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She found
her aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily was
naturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to the
drooping heart: but Madame Montoni’s was torn, and the softest accents
of Emily’s voice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she did
not appear to observe her aunt’s distress, but it gave an involuntary
gentleness to her manners, and an air of solicitude to her countenance,
which Madame Montoni was vexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the pity
of her niece to be an insult to her pride, and dismissed her as soon as
she properly could. Emily did not venture to mention again the
reluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she requested that
Annette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired to rest;
and the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, was
now with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone.
With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, while
the feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only showed the gloom around
her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely
silence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed her; now and
then, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise from a remote
part of the edifice, where the servants were assembled, but it was soon
lost, and a kind of breathless stillness remained. As she passed the
suite of rooms which she had visited in the morning, her eyes glanced