The Mysteries of Udolpho
When Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, but
was still unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes
followed some person in the room. Emily tried to sooth her disturbed
spirits, and forbore, at present, to ask her any questions; but the
faculty of speech was never long withheld from Annette, and she
explained, in broken sentences, and in her tedious way, the occasion of
her disorder. She affirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction, that
almost staggered the incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an
apparition, as she was passing to her bedroom, through the corridor.
“I had heard strange stories of that chamber before,” said Annette:
“but as it was so near yours, ma’amselle, I would not tell them to you,
because they would frighten you. The servants had told me, often and
often, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it was shut up:
nay, for that matter, why the whole string of these rooms, here, are
shut up. I quaked whenever I went by, and I must say, I did sometimes
think I heard odd noises within it. But, as I said, as I was passing
along the corridor, and not thinking a word about the matter, or even
of the strange voice that the Signors heard the other night, all of a
sudden comes a great light, and, looking behind me, there was a tall
figure, (I saw it as plainly, ma’amselle, as I see you at this moment),
a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I cannot describe how!) into the room,
that is always shut up, and nobody has the key of it but the Signor,
and the door shut directly.”
“Then it doubtless was the Signor,” said Emily.
“O no, ma’amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busy
a-quarrelling in my lady’s dressing-room!”
“You bring me strange tales, Annette,” said Emily: “it was but this
morning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension of
murder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost! These
wonderful stories come too quickly.”
“Nay, ma’amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not been
frightened, I should not have fainted dead away so. I ran as fast as I
could, to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could not
call out; then I thought something must be strangely the matter with
me, and directly I dropt down.”
“Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?” said Emily. “O! no,
ma’amselle, it was one nearer to this. What shall I do, to get to my
room? I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole world!”
Emily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who, therefore, did
not like the thought of passing the night alone, told her she might
sleep where she was. “O, no, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, “I would not
sleep in the room now for a thousand sequins!”
Wearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared, her
fears, and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt succeeded, and
the girl persisted in believing and affirming, that what she had seen
was nothing human. It was not till some time after Emily had recovered
her composure, that she recollected the steps she had heard on the
staircase—a remembrance, however, which made her insist that Annette
should pass the night with her, and, with much difficulty, she, at
length, prevailed, assisted by that part of the girl’s fear, which
concerned the corridor.
Early on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to the
ramparts, she heard a noisy bustle in the courtyard, and the clatter of
horses’ hoofs. Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and, instead
of going to the ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from whence
she saw, in the court below, a large party of horsemen, dressed in a
singular, but uniform, habit, and completely, though variously, armed.
They wore a kind of short jacket, composed of black and scarlet, and
several of them had a cloak, of plain black, which, covering the person
entirely, hung down to the stirrups. As one of these cloaks glanced
aside, she saw, beneath, daggers, apparently of different sizes, tucked
into the horseman’s belt. She further observed, that these were
carried, in the same manner, by many of the horsemen without cloaks,
most of whom bore also pikes, or javelins. On their heads, were the
small Italian caps, some of which were distinguished by black feathers.
Whether these caps gave a fierce air to the countenance, or that the
countenances they surmounted had naturally such an appearance, Emily
thought she had never, till then, seen an assemblage of faces so savage
and terrific. While she gazed, she almost fancied herself surrounded by
banditti; and a vague thought glanced athwart her fancy—that Montoni
was the captain of the group before her, and that this castle was to be
the place of rendezvous. The strange and horrible supposition was but
momentary, though her reason could supply none more probable, and
though she discovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly
noticed with so much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black
plume.
While she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came forth
from the hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore hats, with
a mixed plume of black and scarlet, and that their arms differed from
those of the rest of the party. As they mounted their horses, Emily was
struck with the exulting joy, expressed on the visage of Verezzi, while
Cavigni was gay, yet with a shade of thought on his countenance; and,
as he managed his horse with dexterity, his graceful and commanding
figure, which exhibited the majesty of a hero, had never appeared to
more advantage. Emily, as she observed him, thought he somewhat
resembled Valancourt, in the spirit and dignity of his person; but she
looked in vain for the noble, benevolent countenance—the soul’s
intelligence, which overspread the features of the latter.
As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would accompany
the party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred. Having
carefully observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the cavaliers,
and bidden them farewell, the band wheeled round the court, and, led by
Verezzi, issued forth under the portcullis; Montoni following to the
portal, and gazing after them for some time. Emily then retired from
the casement, and, now certain of being unmolested, went to walk on the
ramparts, from whence she soon after saw the party winding among the
mountains to the west, appearing and disappearing between the woods,
till distance confused their figures, consolidated their numbers, and
only a dingy mass appeared moving along the heights.
Emily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that the
repairs of the fortifications seemed to be completed. While she
sauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distant footsteps, and, raising
her eyes, saw several men lurking under the castle walls, who were
evidently not workmen, but looked as if they would have accorded well
with the party which was gone. Wondering where Annette had hid herself
so long, who might have explained some of the late circumstances, and
then considering that Madame Montoni was probably risen, she went to
her dressing-room, where she mentioned what had occurred; but Madame
Montoni either would not, or could not, give any explanation of the
event. The Signor’s reserve to his wife, on this subject, was probably
nothing more than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave an air of mystery to
the whole affair, that seemed to hint there was danger, if not villany,
in his schemes.
Annette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her lady’s
eager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she replied:
“Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he knows
well enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master. Some say the
Signor is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call it: but where
is the enemy? Then others say, he is going to take away somebody’s
castle: but I am sure he has room enough in his own, without taking
other people’s; and I am sure I should like it a great deal better, if
there were more people to fill it.”
“Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,” replied Madame Montoni.
“No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having. I mean
such gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always telling
droll stories, to make one laugh. It was but yesterday, he told me such
a _humoursome_ tale! I can’t help laughing at it now.—Says he—”
“Well, we can dispense with the story,” said her lady.
“Ah!” continued Annette, “he sees a great way further than other
people! Now he sees into all the Signor’s meaning, without knowing a
word about the matter!”
“How is that?” said Madame Montoni.
“Why he says—but he made me promise not to tell, and I would not
disoblige him for the world.”
“What is it he made you promise not to tell?” said her lady, sternly.
“I insist upon knowing immediately—what is it he made you promise?”
“O madam,” cried Annette, “I would not tell for the universe!”
“I insist upon your telling this instant,” said Madame Montoni.
“O dear madam! I would not tell for a hundred sequins! You would not
have me forswear myself madam!” exclaimed Annette.
“I will not wait another moment,” said Madame Montoni. Annette was
silent.
“The Signor shall be informed of this directly,” rejoined her mistress;
“he will make you discover all.”
“It is Ludovico, who has discovered,” said Annette: “but for mercy’s
sake, madam, don’t tell the Signor, and you shall know all directly.”
Madame Montoni said, that she would not.
“Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master,
is—is—that is, he only thinks so, and anybody, you know, madam, is free
to think—that the Signor, my master, is—is—”
“Is what?” said her lady, impatiently.
“That the Signor, my master, is going to be—a great robber—that is—he
is going to rob on his own account;—to be, (but I am sure I don’t
understand what he means) to be a—captain of—robbers.”
“Art thou in thy senses, Annette?” said Madame Montoni; “or is this a
trick to deceive me? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico _did_ say to
thee;—no equivocation;—this instant.”
“Nay, madam,” cried Annette, “if this is all I am to get for having
told the secret—” Her mistress thus continued to insist, and Annette to
protest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter leave the
room, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her story. Emily also
was retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay; and Montoni had so
often made her a witness of their contention, that he no longer had
scruples on that account.
“I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:” said
his wife—“what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of, gone out
about?” Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and Emily
whispered something to her. “It does not signify,” said her aunt: “I
will know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been fortified
for.”
“Come, come,” said Montoni, “other business brought me here. I must be
trifled with no longer. I have immediate occasion for what I
demand—those estates must be given up, without further contention; or I
may find a way—”
“They never shall be given up,” interrupted Madame Montoni: “they never
shall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;—but what are these? I
will know. Do you expect the castle to be attacked? Do you expect
enemies? Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a siege?”
“Sign the writings,” said Montoni, “and you shall know more.”
“What enemy can be coming?” continued his wife. “Have you entered into
the service of the state? Am I to be blocked up here to die?”
“That may possibly happen,” said Montoni, “unless you yield to my
demand: for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till then.”