The Mysteries of Udolpho
the castle, in his present state, though there were only the woods, or
a solitary neighbouring cottage, to shelter him from the night.
The Count’s servants having declared, that they would not move him till
he revived, Montoni’s stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and Emily,
superior to Montoni’s menaces, giving water to Morano, and directing
the attendants to bind up his wound. At length, Montoni had leisure to
feel pain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to examine it.
The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he saw,
on raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a countenance
strongly expressive of solicitude. He surveyed her with a look of
anguish.
“I have deserved this,” said he, “but not from Montoni. It is from you,
Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only pity!” He
paused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a moment, he
proceeded. “I must resign you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me the
sufferings I have already occasioned you! But for _that_ villain—his
infamy shall not go unpunished. Carry me from this place,” said he to
his servants. “I am in no condition to travel: you must, therefore,
take me to the nearest cottage, for I will not pass the night under his
roof, although I may expire on the way from it.”
Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might
receive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano was
impatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greater
than that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the offer of
Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to pass the night
in the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the carriage to the
great gate, but the Count forbade him. “I cannot bear the motion of a
carriage,” said he: “call some others of my people, that they may
assist in bearing me in their arms.”
At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that
Cesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily, now
that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the
corridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and also
that the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the castle
immediately. Indignation flashed from Morano’s eyes, and flushed his
cheeks.
“Tell Montoni,” said he, “that I shall go when it suits my own
convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would
the nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear from
me. Tell him, I will not leave _another_ murder on his conscience, if I
can help it.”
“Count Morano! do you know what you say?” said Cavigni.
“Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what
I mean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this
occasion.”
“Count Morano,” said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him,
“dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in your
body.”
“It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!” said Morano, as
the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself from
the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunk
back, exhausted by the effort. Montoni’s people, meanwhile, held
Verezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute his
threat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the cowardly
malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the corridor;
and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long detained, was
now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating voice of Morano
arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to draw nearer.
She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor of his
countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror.
“I am going from hence for ever,” said he: “perhaps, I shall never see
you again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more—I
would also carry your good wishes.”
“You have my forgiveness, then,” said Emily, “and my sincere wishes for
your recovery.”
“And only for my recovery?” said Morano, with a sigh. “For your general
welfare,” added Emily.
“Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,” he resumed; “I certainly
have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to think
of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion which
occasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you to
love me! At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that,
perhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself. Emily—may you never know the
torture of a passion like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, you
might be sensible of such a passion!”
Emily looked impatient to be gone. “I entreat you, Count, to consult
your own safety,” said she, “and linger here no longer. I tremble for
the consequences of Signor Verezzi’s passion, and of Montoni’s
resentment, should he learn that you are still here.”
Morano’s face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes
sparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and
replied in a calm voice, “Since you are interested for my safety, I
will regard it, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you
say, that you wish me well,” said he, fixing on her an earnest and
mournful look.
Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely
attempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. “Farewell, Count
Morano!” said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message
arrived from Montoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his
life, to quit the castle immediately. He regarded her in silence, with
a look of fixed despair. But she had no time to enforce her
compassionate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey the second command
of Montoni, she left the corridor, to attend him.
He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon a
couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few
persons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was
stern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no symptom
of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had yielded
only to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was attended
by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was not with
him.
Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke, for
not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that he
attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even
occurred to her artless mind.
“This is an instance of female caprice,” said he, “which I ought to
have foreseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so
long as it was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you find
I have dismissed him.”
Emily looked astonished. “I do not comprehend you, sir,” said she, “You
certainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to visit
the double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine.”
“To that I reply nothing,” said Montoni; “but it must certainly be a
more than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his cause,
and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary to my
express order—in the presence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on all
occasions, most scrupulously shunned!”
“I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me,”
said Emily calmly; “for of late I have been inclined to think, that of
compassion is an uncommon one. But how could I, could _you_, sir,
witness Count Morano’s deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve
it?”
“You add hypocrisy to caprice,” said Montoni, frowning, “and an attempt
at satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the morals of
other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues, which are
indispensable to a woman—sincerity, uniformity of conduct and
obedience.”
Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the nicest
laws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is just in
morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character, was
shocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart swelled with
the consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of censure, and
she was proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of her
mind, knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but he was a stranger
to the luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, did not foresee the
energy of that sentiment, which now repelled his satire. Turning to a
servant who had lately entered the room, he asked whether Morano had
quitted the castle. The man answered, that his servants were then
removing him, on a couch, to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed
somewhat appeased, on hearing this; and, when Ludovico appeared, a few
moments after, and said, that Morano was gone, he told Emily she might
retire to her apartment.
She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing
the remainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the
staircase made liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed her
more than ever, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni’s room,
and request, that Annette might be permitted to be with her.
On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in dispute,
and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon
distinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards them,
in the hope of conciliating their difference. They were alone.
Verezzi’s face was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object of
it was now removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his
resentment to Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than
disputing, with him.
Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the
insult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that,
wherein he had accused him of murder.
“There is no answering,” said Cavigni, “for the words of a man in a
passion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you persist
in your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both. We have now
more serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty revenge.”
Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni’s arguments, and they, at
length, prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, without
seeing Montoni.
On calling at her aunt’s apartment, she found it fastened. In a few
minutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself.
It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom
from a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours
preceding. She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni’s
air, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen her
husband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest manner
she could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was acquainted
with the whole affair.
Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but
could scarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as she
now discovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, for
Annette to sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately.
A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on the
spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was
stained. Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed. When
she reached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the door of
the staircase had been left open, and that Annette was now with her, to
explore whither it led,—a circumstance now materially connected with
her own safety. Annette accordingly, half curious and half afraid,
proposed to descend the stairs; but, on approaching the door, they
perceived, that it was already fastened without, and their care was