The Mysteries of Udolpho
possible she might administer comfort to the sufferer, at least, by
expressing sympathy, and she laid her hand on the door. While she
hesitated she thought she knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones
of grief. Having, therefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she
gently opened the door, within which all was dark, except that from an
inner apartment a partial light appeared; and she stepped softly on.
Before she reached it, the appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her
dressing-table, weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes,
struck her, and she paused.
Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could
not distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not
allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame
Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by
her own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to
know what occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late
an hour to her aunt’s dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings
by surprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening
to a private discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, after
some further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearer
interests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt,
respecting Madame Montoni.
Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the
servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or
affected to be so, concerning the Count’s intended stay at the castle.
They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed,
and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder how
their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness of
night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for any
other purpose but that of showing the dreariness of the mountains.
Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisy
petitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table.
“And now, ma’amselle,” added she, “I am so sleepy!—I am sure, if you
were so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.”
Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also
waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it
appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she
determined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her
gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized her
spirits, and she hesitated.
“And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep,
Annette,” said she, “for I fear it will be very long before I forget
myself in sleep.”
“I dare say it will be very long, ma’amselle,” said Annette.
“But, before you go,” rejoined Emily, “let me ask you—Had Signor
Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?”
“O no, ma’am, they were alone together.”
“Have you been in my aunt’s dressing-room, since you left me?”
“No, ma’amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was fastened;
so I thought my lady was gone to bed.”
“Who, then, was with your lady just now?” said Emily, forgetting, in
surprise, her usual prudence.
“Nobody, I believe, ma’am,” replied Annette, “nobody has been with her,
I believe, since I left you.”
Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle
with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that
she dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own
circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the
miniature picture, which she had found, after her father’s death, among
the papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It was open upon the table,
before her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken
out of a little box by Emily, some hours before. The sight of it called
up many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the
countenance soothed the emotions, which these had occasioned. It was
the same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, while
she gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied a
resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenly
interrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that had
been found with this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her so
much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep
reverie, into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose
to undress, the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this
midnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired
with the impression the subject she had been considering had given to
her mind, to appall her. Annette’s hints, too, concerning this chamber,
simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed
a circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had witnessed, and
since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own.
The door of the staircase was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable
alarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her
fears, that this staircase had some private communication with the
apartment, which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not to
undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father’s
dog, the faithful _Manchon_, at the foot of the bed, whom she
considered as a kind of guard.
Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy fancy
would still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she heard the
clock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes.
From the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soon
awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the
silence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her to
believe, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in
dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow.
A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from that
part of the room, which communicated with the private staircase, and
she instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door having been
fastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her late
alarming suspicion, concerning its communication, also occurred to her.
Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed,
and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked towards the door of
the staircase, but the lamp, that burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble
a light through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost in
shadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came from the
door, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rusty
bolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if the
hand, that occasioned it, was restrained by a fear of discovery.
While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, and
then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the
extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost
fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to
check the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the
curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motions
of the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the remote
obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached the
hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be a
human figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and
almost subdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued,
however, to watch the figure, which remained for some time motionless,
but then, advancing slowly towards the bed, stood silently at the feet,
where the curtains, being a little open, allowed her still to see it;
terror, however, had now deprived her of the power of discrimination,
as well as of that of utterance.
Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth,
when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for a few
moments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at that
instant awakening the dog, that had slept at Emily’s feet, he barked
loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who struck the
animal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing towards the bed,
Emily discovered—Count Morano!
She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he,
throwing himself on his knee at the bedside, besought her to fear
nothing, and, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her hand,
when the faculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly returned, and
she sprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a kind of prophetic
apprehension had prevented her, on this night, from throwing aside.
Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered,
and caught her hand, as she reached the top of the staircase, but not
before she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man half-way
down the steps. She now screamed in despair, and, believing herself
given up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape.
The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber.
“Why all this terror?” said he, in a tremulous voice. “Hear me, Emily:
I come not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too well—too well
for my own peace.”
Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt.
“Then leave me, sir,” said she, “leave me instantly.”
“Hear me, Emily,” resumed Morano, “hear me! I love, and am in
despair—yes—in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it is,
perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the frenzy of
despair? But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of Montoni
and all his villany.”
“In spite of Montoni!” cried Emily eagerly: “what is it I hear?”
“You hear, that Montoni is a villain,” exclaimed Morano with
vehemence,—“a villain who would have sold you to my love!—Who—”
“And is he less, who would have bought me?” said Emily, fixing on the
Count an eye of calm contempt. “Leave the room, sir, instantly,” she
continued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, “or I will alarm
the family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni’s vengeance,
which I have vainly supplicated from his pity.” But Emily knew, that
she was beyond the hearing of those, who might protect her.
“You can never hope anything from his pity,” said Morano, “he has used
me infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for you, Emily,
for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no doubt.” The
gleam of hope, which the Count’s former speech had revived, was now
nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while Emily’s countenance
betrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to take advantage of
the discovery.
“I lose time,” said he: “I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I came
to solicit, to plead—to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to entreat her
to save me from despair, and herself from destruction. Emily! the
schemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they are
terrible; he has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads. Can I
love you, and abandon you to his power? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy
prison, with a lover, who adores you! I have bribed a servant of the
castle to open the gates, and, before tomorrow’s dawn, you shall be far
on the way to Venice.”
Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment,
too, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw
destruction surround her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost to
think, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless. That
Montoni had formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he had