The Mysteries of Udolpho
now withdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the Count’s
present conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of stronger
interest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to forego a plan,
which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued. These reflections made
her tremble at the hints, which Morano had just given, which she no
longer hesitated to believe; and, while she shrunk from the new scenes
of misery and oppression, that might await her in the castle of
Udolpho, she was compelled to observe, that almost her only means of
escaping them was by submitting herself to the protection of this man,
with whom evils more certain and not less terrible appeared,—evils,
upon which she could not endure to pause for an instant.
Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of
Morano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again the
resisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart,
again conjured her to determine immediately. “Every moment we lose,
will make our departure more dangerous,” said he: “these few moments
lost may enable Montoni to overtake us.”
“I beseech you, sir, be silent,” said Emily faintly: “I am indeed very
wretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me—I command you, leave me
to my fate.”
“Never!” cried the Count vehemently: “let me perish first! But forgive
my violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You cannot be
ignorant of Montoni’s character, you may be ignorant of his
schemes—nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my love
and his power.”
“Nor do I hesitate,” said Emily.
“Let us go, then,” said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising,
“my carriage waits, below the castle walls.”
“You mistake me, sir,” said Emily. “Allow me to thank you for the
interest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice. I
shall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.”
“Under his protection!” exclaimed Morano, proudly, “his _protection!_
Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I have already
told you what you have to expect from his _protection_.”
“And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion, and,
to be convinced, require something approaching to proof.”
“I have now neither the time, nor the means of adducing proof,” replied
the Count.
“Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had.”
“But you trifle with my patience and my distress,” continued Morano.
“Is a marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your
eyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni may
condemn you in this remote prison? Some wretch must have stolen those
affections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus obstinately
persist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond the reach of
oppression.” Morano walked about the room, with quick steps, and a
disturbed air.
“This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my affections
ought not to be yours,” said Emily, mildly, “and this conduct, that I
should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, so long as I
remained in your power. If you wish me to believe otherwise, cease to
oppress me any longer by your presence. If you refuse this, you will
compel me to expose you to the resentment of Signor Montoni.”
“Yes, let him come,” cried Morano furiously, “and brave _my_
resentment! Let him dare to face once more the man he has so
courageously injured; danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance
justice—let him come, and receive my sword in his heart!”
The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of
alarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to
support her, and she resumed her seat;—the words died on her lips, and,
when she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor, which was
locked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave the
apartment, before Morano would be apprised of, and able to counteract,
her intention.
Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the
utmost perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressed all
the rage of jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen his
features under the smile of ineffable tenderness, which he so lately
assumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same.
“Count Morano,” said Emily, at length recovering her voice, “calm, I
entreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not to
pity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred.—I never
could have returned the affection, with which you honour me, and
certainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni injured
you, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose of my
hand, had he even possessed the power to do so. Leave, then, leave the
castle, while you may with safety. Spare yourself the dreadful
consequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse of having prolonged
to me these moments of suffering.”
“Is it for mine, or for Montoni’s safety, that you are thus alarmed?”
said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony.
“For both,” replied Emily, in a trembling voice.
“Unjust revenge!” cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of
passion. “Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment
adequate to the injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the
castle; but it shall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since my
prayers and my sufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in
waiting, who shall convey you to my carriage. Your voice will bring no
succour; it cannot be heard from this remote part of the castle;
submit, therefore, in silence, to go with me.”
This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too
certain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so
entirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to
Morano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advanced to
lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with a
repulsive gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity, said, “Count
Morano! I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is not
the conduct which can win the esteem you appear so solicitous to
obtain, and that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in
the miseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you. Do you
believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look
without emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?—”
Emily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came again
from the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the staircase,
where no person appearing, he called aloud, “Cesario!”
“Emily,” said the Count, “why will you reduce me to adopt this conduct?
How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you to become my
wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by Montoni. Yet a
thought glances across my mind, that brings madness with it. I know not
how to name it. It is preposterous—it cannot be.—Yet you tremble—you
grow pale! It is! it is so;—you—you—love Montoni!” cried Morano,
grasping Emily’s wrist, and stamping his foot on the floor.
An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. “If you
have indeed believed so,” said she, “believe so still.”
“That look, those words confirm it,” exclaimed Morano, furiously. “No,
no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he shall not
live to triumph over me!—This very instant—”
He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog.
“Stay, Count Morano,” said Emily, terrified by his words, and by the
fury expressed in his eyes, “I will save you from this error.—Of all
men, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other
means of saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not arouse
his servants to my succour.”
“Assertion,” replied Morano, “at such a moment, is not to be depended
upon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that he
could see you, and not love?—But my first care shall be to convey you
from the castle. Cesario! ho,—Cesario!”
A man now appeared at the door of the staircase, and other steps were
heard ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried her
across the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at the
door, that opened upon the corridor. The Count paused an instant, as if
his mind was suspended between love and the desire of vengeance; and,
in that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni, followed by the old
steward and several other persons, burst into the room.
“Draw!” cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second
bidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that appeared
from the staircase, turned fiercely round. “This in thine heart,
villain!” said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his sword, who
parried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the persons, who had
followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the combatants, and
others rescued Emily from the hands of Morano’s servants.
“Was it for this, Count Morano,” said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic tone
of voice, “that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, though
my declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it, that you
might repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of
my niece?”
“Who talks of treachery?” said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained
vehemence. “Let him that does, show an unblushing face of innocence.
Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair, look
to yourself as the author of it. _If_—do I say? _I_—whom you have
wronged with unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost beyond
redress! But why do I use words?—Come on, coward, and receive justice
at my hands!”
“Coward!” cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and
rushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, where
the fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators dared
approach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered, should
fall by his sword.
Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the superior
skill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his adversary,
whom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not be
restrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He seemed
to be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive only to the
energy of his passions. Montoni, on the contrary, persevered in the
combat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he received the point of
Morano’s sword on his arm, but, almost in the same instant, severely
wounded and disarmed him. The Count then fell back into the arms of his
servant, while Montoni held his sword over him, and bade him ask his
life. Morano, sinking under the anguish of his wound, had scarcely
replied by a gesture, and by a few words, feebly articulated, that he
would not—when he fainted; and Montoni was then going to have plunged
the sword into his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm was
arrested by Cavigni. To the interruption he yielded without much
difficulty, but his complexion changed almost to blackness, as he
looked upon his fallen adversary, and ordered, that he should be
carried instantly from the castle.
In the mean time, Emily, who had been withheld from leaving the chamber
during the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and pleaded a
cause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest benevolence,
when she entreated Montoni to allow Morano the assistance in the
castle, which his situation required. But Montoni, who had seldom
listened to pity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance, and, with a
monster’s cruelty, again ordered his defeated enemy to be taken from