The Mysteries of Udolpho
“The Signora is alive,” said he, “for me. She is my prisoner, though;
his _Excellenza_ has shut her up in the chamber over the great gates of
the court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to have told you,
you might see her—but now—”
Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, had
now only to ask Barnardine’s forgiveness, and to conjure, that he would
let her visit her aunt.
He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her,
that, if she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor was
retired to rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should,
perhaps, see Madame Montoni.
Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession, she
thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he
pronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the
thought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to his pity,
and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and would be
punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired,
unobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, before the
tumult of joy, which Barnardine’s unexpected intelligence had
occasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious
of the real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and herself.
When this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt was yet the
prisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall a
sacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage aspect of the
person, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her doom appeared to
be already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine seemed to bear the
stamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon it, she felt
inclined to believe, that there was no deed, however black, which he
might not be prevailed upon to execute. These reflections brought to
her remembrance the tone of voice, in which he had promised to grant
her request to see his prisoner; and she mused upon it long in
uneasiness and doubt. Sometimes, she even hesitated, whether to trust
herself with him at the lonely hour he had appointed; and once, and
only once, it struck her, that Madame Montoni might be already
murdered, and that this ruffian was appointed to decoy herself to some
secret place, where her life also was to be sacrificed to the avarice
of Montoni, who then would claim securely the contested estates in
Languedoc. The consideration of the enormity of such guilt did, at
length, relieve her from the belief of its probability, but not from
all the doubts and fears, which a recollection of Barnardine’s manner
had occasioned. From these subjects, her thoughts, at length, passed to
others; and, as the evening advanced, she remembered, with somewhat
more than surprise, the music she had heard, on the preceding night,
and now awaited its return, with more than curiosity.
She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni
and his companions—the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choral
song, that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the heavy gates
of the castle shut for the night, and those sounds instantly sunk into
a silence, which was disturbed only by the whispering steps of persons,
passing through the galleries to their remote rooms. Emily now judging
it to be about the time, when she had heard the music, on the preceding
night, dismissed Annette, and gently opened the casement to watch for
its return. The planet she had so particularly noticed, at the
recurrence of the music, was not yet risen; but, with superstitious
weakness, she kept her eyes fixed on that part of the hemisphere, where
it would rise, almost expecting, that, when it appeared, the sounds
would return. At length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern
towers of the castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and
she had scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning
music should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet
retained. The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be
about the time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a chair,
near the casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but the
anxiety of expectation yet disturbed them. Everything, however,
remained still; she heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and the
lulling murmur of the woods below, and she again leaned from the
casement, and again looked, as if for intelligence, to the planet,
which was now risen high above the towers.
Emily continued to listen, but no music came. “Those were surely no
mortal sounds!” said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. “No
inhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the feeling,
that could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know, that it has
been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard on earth.
Father Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had sometimes
heard them in the stillness of night, when they alone were waking to
offer their orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father himself, once said,
that, soon after my mother’s death, as he lay watchful in grief, sounds
of uncommon sweetness called him from his bed; and, on opening his
window, he heard lofty music pass along the midnight air. It soothed
him, he said; he looked up with confidence to heaven, and resigned her
to his God.”
Emily paused to weep at this recollection. “Perhaps,” resumed she,
“perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,—to encourage me!
Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc!
Perhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!” She wept again in
tenderness. Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn thought;
but no sounds returned; and, after remaining at the casement, till the
light tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops and steal upon the
night-shade, she concluded, that they would not return, and retired
reluctantly to repose.
VOLUME 3
CHAPTER I
I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time,
The moment on ’t; for ’t must be done tonight.
MACBETH
Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that
Annette had heard of Madame Montoni’s confinement in the chamber over
the portal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching
night. That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoined
her to conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet a hearer as
Annette, appeared very improbable, though he had now charged her with a
message, concerning the intended interview. He requested, that Emily
would meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a little after midnight,
when he himself would lead her to the place he had promised; a
proposal, from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears
darted athwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding
night, and which she neither knew how to trust, nor to dismiss. It
frequently occurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her,
concerning Madame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and
that he had deceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw
her into some of the desperate designs of the latter. The terrible
suspicion, that Madame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied
by one not less dreadful for herself. Unless the crime, by which the
aunt had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected
with profit, a motive, upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to
act, its object must be unattained, till the niece was also dead, to
whom Montoni knew that his wife’s estates must descend. Emily
remembered the words, which had informed her, that the contested
estates in France would devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, without
consigning them to her husband, and the former obstinate perseverance
of her aunt made it too probable, that she had, to the last, withheld
them. At this instant, recollecting Barnardine’s manner, on the
preceding night, she now believed, what she had then fancied, that it
expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at the recollection, which
confirmed her fears, and determined not to meet him on the terrace.
Soon after, she was inclined to consider these suspicions as the
extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed mind, and could not
believe Montoni liable to such preposterous depravity as that of
destroying, from one motive, his wife and her niece. She blamed herself
for suffering her romantic imagination to carry her so far beyond the
bounds of probability, and determined to endeavour to check its rapid
flights, lest they should sometimes extend into madness. Still,
however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting Barnardine, on the
terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to be relieved from this
terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her, and to sooth her
sufferings, made her hesitate what to do.
“Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that
hour?” said she, recollecting herself, “the sentinels will stop me, and
Signor Montoni will hear of the affair.”
“O ma’amselle! that is well thought of,” replied Annette. “That is what
Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say it
unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the
end of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men on
watch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to come
to the terrace was, because he could take you to the place you want to
go to, without opening the great doors of the hall, which grate so
heavily.”
Emily’s spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed
to be honestly given to Annette. “But why did he desire I would come
alone, Annette?” said she.
“Why that was what I asked him myself, ma’amselle. Says I, ‘Why is my
young lady to come alone?—Surely I may come with her!—What harm can _I_
do?’ But he said ‘No—no—I tell you not,’ in his gruff way. Nay, says I,
I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it’s a
hard matter if I can’t keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing
but—‘No—no—no.’ Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I will tell
you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, and I have never
opened my lips about it yet—so you need not be afraid of telling me.
But all would not do. Then, ma’amselle, I went so far as to offer him a
beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keepsake, and I would
not have parted with it for all St. Marco’s Place; but even that would
not do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you know,
ma’am, who you are going to see.”
“Pray did Barnardine tell you this?”
“He! No, ma’amselle, that he did not.”
Emily enquired who did, but Annette showed, that she _could_ keep a
secret.
During the remainder of the day, Emily’s mind was agitated with doubts
and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this
Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she
scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself
alternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she had
decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock strike
eleven—twelve—and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was now
come, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she felt
for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette follow
her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her
return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly still,
and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of
dreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the
two solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed