The Mysteries of Udolpho
boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility—a
quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.”
“Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said,
Montoni threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away
my settlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when you came
into the room before. Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make
me do this. Neither will I bear all this tamely. He shall hear his true
character from me; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of his
threats and cruel treatment.”
Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni’s voice, to speak. “Dear madam,”
said she, “but will not this serve to irritate the Signor
unnecessarily? will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?”
“I do not care,” replied Madame Montoni, “it does not signify: I will
not submit to such usage. You would have me give up my settlements,
too, I suppose!”
“No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.”
“What is it you do mean then?”
“You spoke of reproaching the Signor,”—said Emily, with hesitation.
“Why, does he not deserve reproaches?” said her aunt.
“Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make
them?”
“Prudent!” exclaimed Madame Montoni. “Is this a time to talk of
prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?”
“It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.” said Emily.
“Of prudence!” continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, “of
prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the common
ties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to consider
prudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.”
“It is for your own sake, not for the Signor’s, madam,” said Emily
modestly, “that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches, however
just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violence
against you.”
“What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands—would
you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?
Would you have me give up my settlements?”
“How much you mistake me, madam!” said Emily, “I am unequal to advise
you on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for
saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliate
Signor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches.”
“Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I
disdain to attempt it.”
Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinate
temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings, she
looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. “Your
situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam,” said Emily, “as
you may imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse than
they are, for the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for his
possession of your settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, you
may look forward to it as a resource, at least, that will afford you a
competence, should the Signor’s future conduct compel you to sue for
separation.”
Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. “Unfeeling, cruel girl!”
said she, “and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to
complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that my
future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs are as
fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, to
endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because you
happen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heart
to a person, who could sympathise in my distress, but I find, that your
people of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may
retire to your chamber.”
Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled
emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she
yielded to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt’s
situation had occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with
Valancourt, in France, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the
broken fortunes of Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also,
concerning his character, appeared not less so, though the particular
circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the stranger had
alluded, yet remained to be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own
observations and the words of Count Morano had convinced her, that
Montoni’s situation was not what it formerly appeared to be, the
intelligence she had just received from her aunt on this point, struck
her with all the force of astonishment, which was not weakened, when
she considered the present style of Montoni’s living, the number of
servants he maintained, and the new expences he was incurring, by
repairing and fortifying his castle. Her anxiety for her aunt and for
herself increased with reflection. Several assertions of Morano, which,
on the preceding night, she had believed were prompted either by
interest, or by resentment, now returned to her mind with the strength
of truth. She could not doubt, that Montoni had formerly agreed to give
her to the Count, for a pecuniary reward;—his character, and his
distressed circumstances justified the belief; these, also, seemed to
confirm Morano’s assertion, that he now designed to dispose of her,
more advantageously for himself, to a richer suitor.
Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni, he
had said—he would not quit the castle _he dared to call his_, nor
willingly leave _another_ murder on his conscience—hints, which might
have no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was now
inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to
think, that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible
they could apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neither
release her from her melancholy situation, nor enable her to bear it
with greater fortitude, she tried to divert her anxiety, and took down
from her little library a volume of her favourite Ariosto; but his wild
imagery and rich invention could not long enchant her attention; his
spells did not reach her heart, and over her sleeping fancy they
played, without awakening it.
She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that
her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when they
did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of
tenderness and regret; and there were times, when music had increased
such sorrow to a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had
not suddenly ceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time,
when she mourned for her father, and heard the midnight strains, that
floated by her window near the convent in Languedoc, on the night that
followed his death.
She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber, at
which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. “My
lady’s, ma’amselle,” replied Annette: “the Signor ordered her dinner to
be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. There
have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I think.”
Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little
table, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thus
easily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whom
Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at
their strange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they had
been attended by Montoni’s order. “Do they dine with the Signor, then?”
said Emily.
“No, ma’amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north end
of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor told
old Carlo to see them provided with everything necessary. They have
been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmen
on the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I am
frightened whenever I see them.”
Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was
likely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a
cottage in the wood below, and that everybody said he must die. Emily’s
countenance discovered her emotion.
“Dear ma’amselle,” said Annette, “to see how young ladies will disguise
themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or I
am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enough
to hate him.”
“I hope I hate nobody,” replied Emily, trying to smile; “but certainly
I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person
dying by violent means.”
“Yes, ma’amselle, but it is his own fault.”
Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. “To be
sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,” said she, “to break into a
lady’s room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable
to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle
comes to desire him to walk about his business—to turn round, and draw
his sword, and swear he’ll run him through the body! To be sure it was
very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did
not know what he was about.”
“Enough of this,” said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and
her lady. “It is nothing new,” said she: “we saw and heard enough of
this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma’amselle.”
“Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be
as prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.”
“Ah dear, ma’amselle!—to see now how considerate you can be about some
folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you so
deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and not
to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to love
her; but—”
“You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?” said Emily,
gravely.
“Yes, ma’amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do,
you would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor
and her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always
advised him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased
to call them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient,
whether you would, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand
times, and I have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might
have felt a little for other people, and—”
“I thank you for your pity, Annette,” said Emily, interrupting her:
“but my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps,
or I think—I am sure—You may take away, Annette, I have done.”
“Dear ma’amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a
little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always
disturbed, I think. And at Thoulouse I have heard my lady talking of
you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, often
and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them what a
deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and
distress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away with
Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that you
connived at his coming about the house at night, and—”
“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, “it is surely impossible
my aunt could thus have represented me!”
“Indeed, ma’am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of that.
But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to
discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been
in fault, ma’amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said.