The Mysteries of Udolpho
second flight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was
yet another chamber to be explored, she again followed the windings of
the ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track of blood glared upon the
stairs.
It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but
she was unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the
sought-for certainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before,
and had not fortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the
door.
Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or
destroy her fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and,
finding it fastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling
silence ensued.
“She is dead!” she cried,—“murdered!—her blood is on the stairs!”
Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had
scarcely presence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a
step.
When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and again
attempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, without
receiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the turret,
and, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit, sought her own
apartment.
As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from
whence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to
behold him, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being
noticed, and heard him close the door, which she had perceived was the
same she formerly observed. Having here listened to his departing
steps, till their faint sound was lost in distance, she ventured to her
apartment, and, securing it once again, retired to her bed, leaving the
lamp burning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her harassed mind,
to which images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to think it
possible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but,
when she recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terrible
spirit of vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when
she remembered his general character, the looks of the men, who had
forced Madame Montoni from her apartment, and the written traces on the
stairs of the turret—she could not doubt, that her aunt had been
carried thither, and could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried
to be murdered.
The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emily
closed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her a
respite from suffering.
CHAPTER XI
Who rears the bloody hand?
SAYERS
Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without
receiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except the
armed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted no
food since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made her
feel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtain
refreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty for
Annette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long as
possible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or to
the compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerning
her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and she
determined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to
see Madame Montoni.
Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some
accident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement;
Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she had
spoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yet
there, to inform Montoni of her situation.
It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went
first to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a single
person, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distant
footstep.
It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible
upon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own and
Ludovico’s fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved to
death, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that she was
going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger now
yielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was
loudly entreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from
him.
As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the people
she met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, were
peaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly at
her, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towards
the cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on the
pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained with
blood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; but
from such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approached
the room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dread
of appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoni by
such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. She
looked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant,
who might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of what
she had to request made her still linger near the door. The voices
within were not in contention, though she distinguished those of
several of the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution
failed, whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had
determined to walk in the hall, till some person should appear, who
might call Montoni from the room, when, as she turned from the door, it
was suddenly opened by himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while
he almost started with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance
unfolded themselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither
enquired for her aunt, nor entreated for Annette, but stood silent and
embarrassed.
After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she had
not been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; an
accusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assured him
she had not come thither with an intention to listen to his
conversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and for
Annette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded her
with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no
trifling interest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded
with entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to
permit, that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a
malignant smile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for
her aunt, and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her
entreaties.
“For Annette,” said he,—“if you go to Carlo, he will release the girl;
the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.” Emily
shuddered.—“But my aunt, Signor”—said she, “O tell me of my aunt!”
“She is taken care of,” replied Montoni hastily, “I have no time to
answer idle questions.”
He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not
be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was;
while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet
sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the
portal open, and then the clattering of horses’ hoofs in the court,
with the confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating
whether she should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet,
had passed through the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she
saw through the door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches
into the courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the
distance and her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen
depart, a few days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when
the trumpet sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room,
and men came running into the hall from every quarter of the castle.
Emily once more hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she
was still pursued by images of horror. She reconsidered Montoni’s
manner and words, when he had spoken of his wife, and they served only
to confirm her most terrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to
relieve her distress, and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed
in thought, when a knocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening
which she found old Carlo.
“Dear young lady,” said he, “I have been so flurried, I never once
thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine,
and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.”
“Thank you, Carlo,” said Emily, “this is very good of you. Did the
Signor remind you of me?”
“No, Signora,” replied Carlo, “his _Excellenza_ has business enough on
his hands.” Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame
Montoni, but Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle,
during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since,
concerning her.
While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew
whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth
from a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerning
the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told,
that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signor
believed himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests.
“The fighting was about that, Signora,” said Carlo; “but I trust I
shall never see such another day in this castle, though strange things
are about to be done.”
On her enquiring his meaning, “Ah, Signora!” added he, “it is not for
me to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.”
She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the
chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her
immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were the
persons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi,
with his party.
Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with
Carlo; for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to
hear the accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.
An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and
sobbing. “O Ludovico—Ludovico!” cried she.
“My poor Annette!” said Emily, and made her sit down.
“Who could have foreseen this, ma’amselle? O miserable, wretched,
day—that ever I should live to see it!” and she continued to moan and
lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief.
“We are continually losing dear friends by death,” said she, with a
sigh, that came from her heart. “We must submit to the will of
Heaven—our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!”
Annette took the handkerchief from her face.
“You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,” added Emily.
“Yes—yes,—ma’amselle,” sobbed Annette, “but I hope I shall meet him
again in this—though he is so wounded!”
“Wounded!” exclaimed Emily, “does he live?”
“Yes, ma’am, but—but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to let
me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightly
himself, till within this hour.”
“Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.”
“Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!”
Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought
implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured
to encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could
give no satisfactory answers.
“I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma’amselle,” said she, “for