The Mysteries of Udolpho
Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as suddenly
checked, considering, that her husband’s assertions might be only
artifices, employed to extort her consent. She hinted this suspicion,
and, in the next moment, told him also, that his designs were not so
honourable as to serve the state, and that she believed he had only
commenced a captain of banditti, to join the enemies of Venice, in
plundering and laying waste the surrounding country.
Montoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern countenance;
while Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought she had said too
much. “You shall be removed, this night,” said he, “to the east turret:
there, perhaps, you may understand the danger of offending a man, who
has an unlimited power over you.”
Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated for
her aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now ready to
pour forth execrations, and now to join the intercessions of Emily.
Montoni, however, soon interrupted these entreaties with a horrible
oath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving his cloak, in her hand, she
fell to the floor, with a force, that occasioned her a severe blow on
the forehead. But he quitted the room, without attempting to raise her,
whose attention was called from herself, by a deep groan from Madame
Montoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in her chair, and had not
fainted. Emily, hastening to her assistance, saw her eyes rolling, and
her features convulsed.
Having spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she brought water,
and supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but the
increasing convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance. On
her way through the hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni, whom
she told what had happened, and conjured to return and comfort her
aunt; but he turned silently away, with a look of indifference, and
went out upon the ramparts. At length she found old Carlo and Annette,
and they hastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni had fallen
on the floor, and was lying in strong convulsions. Having lifted her
into the adjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the force of her
disorder still made all their strength necessary to hold her, while
Annette trembled and sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently and
piteously on, as his feeble hands grasped those of his mistress, till,
turning his eyes upon Emily, he exclaimed, “Good God! Signora, what is
the matter?”
Emily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her:
and Annette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily’s face was stained
with blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead: but her
attention had been so entirely occupied by the scene before her, that
she had felt no pain from the wound. She now held a handkerchief to her
face, and, notwithstanding her faintness, continued to watch Madame
Montoni, the violence of whose convulsions was abating, till at length
they ceased, and left her in a kind of stupor.
“My aunt must remain quiet,” said Emily. “Go, good Carlo; if we should
want your assistance, I will send for you. In the mean time, if you
have an opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your master.”
“Alas!” said Carlo, “I have seen too much! I have little influence with
the Signor. But do, dear young lady, take some care of yourself; that
is an ugly wound, and you look sadly.”
“Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,” said Emily, smiling
kindly: “the wound is trifling, it came by a fall.”
Carlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette,
continued to watch by her aunt. “Did my lady tell the Signor what
Ludovico said, ma’amselle?” asked Annette in a whisper; but Emily
quieted her fears on the subject.
“I thought what this quarrelling would come to,” continued Annette: “I
suppose the Signor has been beating my lady.”
“No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extraordinary has
happened.”
“Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma’amselle, that there
is nothing in them. Here is another legion of those ill-looking
fellows, come to the castle, this morning.”
“Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by and
bye.”
They continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a low
sigh, when Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but the
former gazed with unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew her
niece. Her first words then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily
replied by an entreaty, that she would compose her spirits, and consent
to be kept quiet, adding, that, if she wished any message to be
conveyed to him, she would herself deliver it. “No,” said her aunt
faintly, “no—I have nothing new to tell him. Does he persist in saying
I shall be removed from my chamber?”
Emily replied that he had not spoken on the subject since Madame
Montoni heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to some
other topic; but her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said,
and lost in secret thoughts. Emily, having brought her some
refreshment, now left her to the care of Annette, and went in search of
Montoni, whom she found on a remote part of the rampart, conversing
among a group of the men described by Annette. They stood round him
with fierce, yet subjugated, looks, while he, speaking earnestly, and
pointing to the walls, did not perceive Emily, who remained at some
distance, waiting till he should be at leisure, and observing
involuntarily the appearance of one man, more savage than his fellows,
who stood resting on his pike, and looking, over the shoulders of a
comrade, at Montoni, to whom he listened with uncommon earnestness.
This man was apparently of low condition; yet his looks appeared not to
acknowledge the superiority of Montoni, as did those of his companions;
and sometimes they even assumed an air of authority, which the decisive
manner of the Signor could not repress. Some few words of Montoni then
passed in the wind; and, as the men were separating, she heard him say,
“This evening, then, begin the watch at sunset.”
“At sunset, Signor,” replied one or two of them, and walked away; while
Emily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding her: but,
though she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She endeavoured
to intercede once more for her aunt, represented to him her sufferings,
and urged the danger of exposing her to a cold apartment in her present
state. “She suffers by her own folly,” said Montoni, “and is not to be
pitied;—she knows how she may avoid these sufferings in future—if she
is removed to the turret, it will be her own fault. Let her be
obedient, and sign the writings you heard of, and I will think no more
of it.”
When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked her
for interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed her
with this concession—That he would not remove Madame Montoni, on the
ensuing night, but allow her till the next to consider, whether she
would resign her settlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret of
the castle, “where she shall find,” he added, “a punishment she may not
expect.”
Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of the
alternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply, but
appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme
languor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting
topics: and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame Montoni
became peevish, her resolution, on the contended point, seemed somewhat
to relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of safety, that she
should submit to Montoni’s demand. “You know not what you advise,” said
her aunt. “Do you understand, that these estates will descend to you at
my death, if I persist in a refusal?”
“I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,” replied Emily, “but the
knowledge of it cannot withhold me from advising you to adopt the
conduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety requires,
and I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration comparatively
so trifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning them.”
“Are you sincere, niece?” “Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?” Her
aunt appeared to be affected. “You are not unworthy of these estates,
niece,” said she: “I would wish to keep them for your sake—you show a
virtue I did not expect.”
“How have I deserved this reproof, madam?” said Emily sorrowfully.
“Reproof!” replied Madame Montoni: “I meant to praise your virtue.”
“Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,” rejoined Emily, “for here is no
temptation to be overcome.”
“Yet Monsieur Valancourt—” said her aunt. “O, madam!” interrupted
Emily, anticipating what she would have said, “do not let me glance on
that subject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so shockingly
self-interested.” She immediately changed the topic, and continued with
Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for the night.
At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of
it, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed along
the wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt forlorn and
apprehensive of—she scarcely knew what; but when, entering the
corridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding night, a dread
seized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that, which had
befallen Annette, should occur to her, and which, whether real, or
ideal, would, she felt, have an almost equal effect upon her weakened
spirits. The chamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did not exactly
know, but understood it to be one of those she must pass in the way to
her own; and, sending a fearful look forward into the gloom, she
stepped lightly and cautiously along, till, coming to a door, from
whence issued a low sound, she hesitated and paused; and, during the
delay of that moment, her fears so much increased, that she had no
power to move from the spot. Believing, that she heard a human voice
within, she was somewhat revived; but, in the next moment, the door was
opened, and a person, whom she conceived to be Montoni, appeared, who
instantly started back, and closed it, though not before she had seen,
by the light that burned in the chamber, another person, sitting in a
melancholy attitude by the fire. Her terror vanished, but her
astonishment only began, which was now roused by the mysterious secrecy
of Montoni’s manner, and by the discovery of a person, whom he thus
visited at midnight, in an apartment, which had long been shut up, and
of which such extraordinary reports were circulated.
While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch
Montoni’s motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice
them, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed as
before. She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the next but
one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an obscure
corner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this half-seen
person, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni.
Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes
fixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared,
whom she now knew to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, without
perceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left the
corridor. Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside, and
she withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed.
It was now twelve o’clock. As she closed her casement, she heard
footsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom,
several persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She then