The Mysteries of Udolpho
Montoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, “If you
value your own safety,” addressing Emily, “you will be silent. I shall
know how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere in
them.”
Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven. “Here is, indeed, then, nothing
to hope!” said she.
“Peace!” cried Montoni, “or you shall find there is something to fear.”
He turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who
vehemently and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion: but
Montoni’s rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily, dreading the
event of it, threw herself between them, and clasped his knees in
silence, looking up in his face with an expression, that might have
softened the heart of a fiend. Whether his was hardened by a conviction
of Madame Montoni’s guilt, or that a bare suspicion of it made him
eager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike insensible to the
distress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of Emily, whom he made
no attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing both, when he was
called out of the room by some person at the door. As he shut the door,
Emily heard him turn the lock and take out the key; so that Madame
Montoni and herself were now prisoners; and she saw that his designs
became more and more terrible. Her endeavours to explain his motives
for this circumstance were almost as ineffectual as those to sooth the
distress of her aunt, whose innocence she could not doubt; but she, at
length, accounted for Montoni’s readiness to suspect his wife by his
own consciousness of cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence
of his present conduct against both, before even his suspicions could
be completely formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly
whatever he was led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or
humanity, in accomplishing it.
Madame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a
possibility of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on the
subject, who was now willing to encounter any hazard, though she
forbore to encourage a hope in her aunt, which she herself did not
admit. How strongly the edifice was secured, and how vigilantly
guarded, she knew too well; and trembled to commit their safety to the
caprice of the servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old Carlo
was compassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master’s
interest to be trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, and
Emily knew Ludovico only from her report. At present, however, these
considerations were useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being shut up
from all intercourse, even with the persons, whom there might be these
reasons to reject.
In the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she listened
anxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, sometimes
fancied she heard the clashing of swords, and, when she considered the
nature of the provocation, given by Montoni, and his impetuosity, it
appeared probable, that nothing less than arms would terminate the
contention. Madame Montoni, having exhausted all her expressions of
indignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained silent, in that
kind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often succeeds to the
uproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the morning, that
dawns upon the ruins of an earthquake.
An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily’s mind; the circumstances of
the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and her
thoughts were various and rapid, though without tumult.
From this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at the
chamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering voice
of Annette.
“Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,” said the poor
girl.
“The door is locked,” answered the lady.
“Yes, ma’am, but do pray open it.”
“The Signor has the key,” said Madame Montoni.
“O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?” exclaimed Annette.
“Assist us to escape,” said her mistress. “Where is Ludovico?”
“Below in the hall, ma’am, amongst them all, fighting with the best of
them!”
“Fighting! Who are fighting?” cried Madame Montoni.
“Why the Signor, ma’am, and all the Signors, and a great many more.”
“Is any person much hurt?” said Emily, in a tremulous voice. “Hurt!
Yes, ma’amselle,—there they lie bleeding, and the swords are clashing,
and—O holy saints! Do let me in, ma’am, they are coming this way—I
shall be murdered!”
“Fly!” cried Emily, “fly! we cannot open the door.”
Annette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled.
“Be calm, madam,” said Emily, turning to her aunt, “I entreat you to be
calm, I am not frightened—not frightened in the least, do not you be
alarmed.”
“You can scarcely support yourself,” replied her aunt; “Merciful God!
what is it they mean to do with us?”
“They come, perhaps, to liberate us,” said Emily, “Signor Montoni
perhaps is—is conquered.”
The belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew
faint as she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet.
“They are coming!” cried Madame Montoni—“I hear their steps—they are at
the door!”
Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of
utterance. The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni
appeared, followed by three ruffian-like men. “Execute your orders,”
said he, turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but
was immediately carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless, on
a couch, by which she had endeavoured to support herself. When she
recovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that Madame Montoni had
been there, together with some unconnected particulars of the preceding
transaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew all her terror.
She looked wildly round the apartment, as if in search of some means of
intelligence, concerning her aunt, while neither her own danger, nor an
idea of escaping from the room, immediately occurred.
When her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went,
but with only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was unfastened.
It was so, and she then stepped timidly out into the gallery, but
paused there, uncertain which way she should proceed. Her first wish
was to gather some information, as to her aunt, and she, at length,
turned her steps to go to the lesser hall, where Annette and the other
servants usually waited.
Everywhere, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of
contention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along
the passages, struck her mind with dismay. Emily might now have
appeared, like an angel of light, encompassed by fiends. At length, she
reached the lesser hall, which was silent and deserted, but, panting
for breath, she sat down to recover herself. The total stillness of
this place was as awful as the tumult, from which she had escaped: but
she had now time to recall her scattered thoughts, to remember her
personal danger, and to consider of some means of safety. She
perceived, that it was useless to seek Madame Montoni, through the wide
extent and intricacies of the castle, now, too, when every avenue
seemed to be beset by ruffians; in this hall she could not resolve to
stay, for she knew not how soon it might become their place of
rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to her chamber, she dreaded
again to encounter them on the way.
Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke on
the silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished voices
and steps approaching. She then rose to go, but the sounds came along
the only passage, by which she could depart, and she was compelled to
await in the hall, the arrival of the persons, whose steps she heard.
As these advanced, she distinguished groans, and then saw a man borne
slowly along by four others. Her spirits faltered at the sight, and she
leaned against the wall for support. The bearers, meanwhile, entered
the hall, and, being too busily occupied to detain, or even notice
Emily, she attempted to leave it, but her strength failed, and she
again sat down on the bench. A damp chillness came over her; her sight
became confused; she knew not what had passed, or where she was, yet
the groans of the wounded person still vibrated on her heart. In a few
moments, the tide of life seemed again to flow; she began to breathe
more freely, and her senses revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever
totally lost her consciousness, but had contrived to support herself on
the bench; still without courage to turn her eyes upon the unfortunate
object, which remained near her, and about whom the men were yet too
much engaged to attend to her.
When her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave the
hall, though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries,
concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself.
Towards her chamber she now hastened, as fast as her steps would bear
her, for she still perceived, upon her passage, the sounds of confusion
at a distance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way through some
obscure rooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose looks had
terrified her before, as well as those parts of the castle, where the
tumult might still rage.
At length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of the
corridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound stillness
reigned in this remote apartment, which not even the faint murmur of
the most distant sounds now reached. She sat down, near one of the
casements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond, the deep
repose of its beauty struck her with all the force of contrast, and she
could scarcely believe herself so near a scene of savage discord. The
contending elements seemed to have retired from their natural spheres,
and to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for there alone
the tempest now reigned.
Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her
constantly listen for some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts,
where all, however, was lonely and still. As a sense of her own
immediate danger had decreased, her apprehension concerning Madame
Montoni heightened, who, she remembered, had been fiercely threatened
with confinement in the east turret, and it was possible, that her
husband had satisfied his present vengeance with this punishment. She,
therefore, determined, when night should return, and the inhabitants of
the castle should be asleep, to explore the way to the turret, which,
as the direction it stood in was mentioned, appeared not very difficult
to be done. She knew, indeed, that although her aunt might be there,
she could afford her no effectual assistance, but it might give her
some comfort even to know, that she was discovered, and to hear the
sound of her niece’s voice; for herself, any certainty, concerning
Madame Montoni’s fate, appeared more tolerable, than this exhausting
suspense.
Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and
somewhat alarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene,
various accidents might have befallen, and it was improbable, that she
would have failed to come to her apartment, unless something
unfortunate had happened.
Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious
conjecturing. Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it
appeared, that Montoni had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her some
comfort to find, that she could be so unnoticed. She endeavoured to
withdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon them, but they
refused control; she could neither read, nor draw, and the tones of her
lute were so utterly discordant with the present state of her feelings,