The Mysteries of Udolpho
heard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when,
recollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni, and the hour
of the night, she understood, that these men were, for the first time,
relieving guard in the castle. Having listened till all was again
still, she retired to sleep.
CHAPTER X
And shall no lay of death
With pleasing murmur sooth
Her parted soul?
Shall no tear wet her grave?
SAYERS
On the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame
Montoni, who had slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits had
also returned with her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni’s
demands revived, though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily,
who trembled for the consequence of further opposition, endeavoured to
confirm.
Her aunt, as has been already shown, had a disposition, which delighted
in contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant circumstances
were offered to her understanding, not to enquire into their truth, but
to seek for arguments, by which she might make them appear false. Long
habit had so entirely confirmed this natural propensity, that she was
not conscious of possessing it. Emily’s remonstrances and
representations, therefore, roused her pride, instead of alarming, or
convincing her judgment, and she still relied upon the discovery of
some means, by which she might yet avoid submitting to the demand of
her husband. Considering, that, if she could once escape from his
castle, she might defy his power, and, obtaining a decisive separation,
live in comfort on the estates, that yet remained for her, she
mentioned this to her niece, who accorded with her in the wish, but
differed from her, as to the probability of its completion. She
represented the impossibility of passing the gates, secured and guarded
as they were, and the extreme danger of committing her design to the
discretion of a servant, who might either purposely betray, or
accidentally disclose it.—Montoni’s vengeance would also disdain
restraint, if her intention was detected: and, though Emily wished, as
fervently as she could do, to regain her freedom, and return to France,
she consulted only Madame Montoni’s safety, and persevered in advising
her to relinquish her settlement, without braving further outrage.
The struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her
aunt’s bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting an
escape. While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, without
noticing his wife’s indisposition, said, that he came to remind her of
the impolicy of trifling with him, and that he gave her only till the
evening to determine, whether she would consent to his demand, or
compel him, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret. He added,
that a party of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and that he
expected that she would sit at the head of the table, where Emily,
also, must be present. Madame Montoni was now on the point of uttering
an absolute refusal, but, suddenly considering, that her liberty,
during this entertainment, though circumscribed, might favour her
further plans, she acquiesced, with seeming reluctance, and Montoni,
soon after, left the apartment. His command struck Emily with surprise
and apprehension, who shrank from the thought of being exposed to the
gaze of strangers, such as her fancy represented these to be, and the
words of Count Morano, now again recollected, did not sooth her fears.
When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with even
more simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation—a policy,
which did not avail her, for, as she repassed to her aunt’s apartment,
she was met by Montoni, who censured what he called her prudish
appearance, and insisted, that she should wear the most splendid dress
she had, even that, which had been prepared for her intended nuptials
with Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her aunt had carefully
brought with her from Venice. This was made, not in the Venetian, but,
in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the shape and figure, to
the utmost advantage. In it, her beautiful chestnut tresses were
negligently bound up in pearls, and suffered to fall back again on her
neck. The simplicity of a better taste, than Madame Montoni’s, was
conspicuous in this dress, splendid as it was, and Emily’s unaffected
beauty never had appeared more captivatingly. She had now only to hope,
that Montoni’s order was prompted, not by any extraordinary design, but
by an ostentation of displaying his family, richly attired, to the eyes
of strangers; yet nothing less than his absolute command could have
prevailed with her to wear a dress, that had been designed for such an
offensive purpose, much less to have worn it on this occasion. As she
descended to dinner, the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush over
her countenance, and heightened its interesting expression; for
timidity had made her linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment,
and, when she entered the hall, in which a kind of state dinner was
spread, Montoni and his guests were already seated at the table. She
was then going to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his
hand, and two of the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them.
The eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an
aquiline nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, when
his mind was agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained
somewhat of the wildness of the passions. His visage was long and
narrow, and his complexion of a sickly yellow.
The other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a different
cast, yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and penetrating; his
eyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; his complexion was a
sun-burnt brown, and the contour of his face, though inclined to oval,
was irregular and ill-formed.
Eight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in a
uniform, and had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness,
of subtle design, or of licentious passions. As Emily timidly surveyed
them, she remembered the scene of the preceding morning, and again
almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; then, looking back to
the tranquillity of her early life, she felt scarcely less
astonishment, than grief, at her present situation. The scene, in which
they sat, assisted the illusion; it was an ancient hall, gloomy from
the style of its architecture, from its great extent, and because
almost the only light it received was from one large gothic window, and
from a pair of folding doors, which, being open, admitted likewise a
view of the west rampart, with the wild mountains of the Apennine
beyond.
The middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, enriched
with fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of marble;
beyond these, long colonnades retired in gloomy grandeur, till their
extent was lost in twilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants, as
they advanced through these, were returned in whispering echoes, and
their figures, seen at a distance imperfectly through the dusk,
frequently awakened Emily’s imagination. She looked alternately at
Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene; and then,
remembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and the
simplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief and
surprise again occupied her mind.
When her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied
she observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she had
never before seen him assume, though he had always been distinguished
by a haughty carriage; there was something also in the manners of the
strangers, that seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to acknowledge
his superiority.
During dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics. They
talked with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the character
of the reigning Doge and of the chief senators; and then spoke of the
state of Rome. When the repast was over, they rose, and, each filling
his goblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that stood beside him, drank
“Success to our exploits!” Montoni was lifting his goblet to his lips
to drink this toast, when suddenly the wine hissed, rose to the brim,
and, as he held the glass from him, it burst into a thousand pieces.
To him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the
quality of breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, that
some of his guests had endeavoured to betray him, instantly occurred,
and he ordered all the gates to be closed, drew his sword, and, looking
round on them, who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed, “Here is a
traitor among us; let those, that are innocent, assist in discovering
the guilty.”
Indignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew their
swords; and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was
hastening from the hall, when her husband commanded her to stay; but
his further words could not now be distinguished, for the voice of
every person rose together. His order, that all the servants should
appear, was at length obeyed, and they declared their ignorance of any
deceit—a protestation which could not be believed; for it was evident,
that, as Montoni’s liquor, and his only, had been poisoned, a
deliberate design had been formed against his life, which could not
have been carried so far towards its accomplishment, without the
connivance of the servant, who had the care of the wine ewers.
This man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness of
guilt, or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained
instantly, and confined in a strong room, which had formerly been used
as a prison. Thither, likewise, he would have sent all his guests, had
he not foreseen the consequence of so bold and unjustifiable a
proceeding. As to those, therefore, he contented himself with swearing,
that no man should pass the gates, till this extraordinary affair had
been investigated, and then sternly bade his wife retire to her
apartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend her.
In about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily
observed, with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and
heard him denounce vengeance on her aunt.
“It will avail you nothing,” said he to his wife, “to deny the fact; I
have proof of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a full
confession;—there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or falsehood;
your accomplice has confessed all.”
Emily’s fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard her
aunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a moment,
admit the possibility of her guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni’s
agitation did not permit her to reply; alternately her complexion
varied from livid paleness to a crimson flush; and she trembled,—but,
whether with fear, or with indignation, it were difficult to decide.
“Spare your words,” said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, “your
countenance makes full confession of your crime.—You shall be instantly
removed to the east turret.”
“This accusation,” said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, “is
used only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it. You
do not believe me guilty.”
“Signor!” said Emily solemnly, “this dreadful charge, I would answer
with my life, is false. Nay, Signor,” she added, observing the severity
of his countenance, “this is no moment for restraint, on my part; I do
not scruple to tell you, that you are deceived—most wickedly deceived,
by the suggestion of some person, who aims at the ruin of my aunt:—it
is impossible, that you could yourself have imagined a crime so
hideous.”