The Mysteries of Udolpho
He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the
cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen
Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni
did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed the
subject.
Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion,
which he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they
should lie in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed,
reproached Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni
would let him lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should
oppose him.
Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened.
Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he
was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer
better than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning
caution of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate,
though silent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm
observer of both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to
bend their opposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But
Verezzi, in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse
Orsino of cowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he
made no reply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who
watched his lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom.
But Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking
contrast to the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and
continued boldly declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily
laughing at his vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino,
when the latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to
stab his adversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm,
and, with a significant look, made him return the poniard into his
bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of the party were
disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where they
meant to form an ambuscade.
When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the
features of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of
his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to
recollect himself, strode up to Montoni.
“Signor,” said he, with a significant look at Orsino, “we are not a
band of assassins; if you have business for brave men, employ me on
this expedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have
only work for cowards—keep him,” pointing to Orsino, “and let me quit
Udolpho.”
Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed
towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword,
when Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them.
“This is the conduct of a boy,” said Montoni to Verezzi, “not of a man:
be more moderate in your speech.”
“Moderation is the virtue of cowards,” retorted Verezzi; “they are
moderate in everything—but in fear.”
“I accept your words,” said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and
haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard.
“With all my heart,” cried Verezzi, “though I did not mean them for
you.”
He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain
Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.
The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and
violent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino,
whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time.
Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the
moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while
she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in the
east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long
unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than she
had suspected even Montoni could practise.
After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit
the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which
design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette
to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to
support her through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to
encounter it, she knew that to remember the performance of this last
act of duty would hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction.
Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former
endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was,
with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret;
but no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of
death.
They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the
staircase, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she
would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track
of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and,
being compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed
no further. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and she
went on.
As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber
opened, she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and
apprehended, that it might still be so. In this expectation, however,
she was mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent
chamber, round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced,
when a hollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move
from the spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and,
then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily’s
spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in
a remote part of the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within,
appeared a pale and emaciated face. She started back, then again
advanced, shuddered as she took up the skeleton hand, that lay
stretched upon the quilt; then let it drop, and then viewed the face
with a long, unsettled gaze. It was that of Madame Montoni, though so
changed by illness, that the resemblance of what it had been, could
scarcely be traced in what it now appeared. She was still alive, and,
raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her niece.
“Where have you been so long?” said she, in the same tone, “I thought
you had forsaken me.”
“Do you indeed live,” said Emily, at length, “or is this but a terrible
apparition?” She received no answer, and again she snatched up the
hand. “This is substance,” she exclaimed, “but it is cold—cold as
marble!” She let it fall. “O, if you really live, speak!” said Emily,
in a voice of desperation, “that I may not lose my senses—say you know
me!”
“I do live,” replied Madame Montoni, “but—I feel that I am about to
die.”
Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were
both silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and
enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable state.
Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable
suspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on
the occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he
was influenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the
comfort of Emily’s visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately
dispatching her, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the
present suggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the
hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at first lead him to
attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and,
though there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in
that atrocious design, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine
her in the turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse,
had suffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever,
till it had reduced her to the present state.
The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from
the unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni,
and which he had received in the late affray. At night these men,
having contented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner’s
room, had retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time
of her first enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted.
When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was
sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to
delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror
permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably have
awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. The
spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily’s
horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the
affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants’ hall,
where she took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his
wounds for some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been
removed on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault
beneath the chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to
the chamber.
Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning
herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest she
felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her
remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of his
granting what she meant to entreat.
“Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,” said Emily, as soon as she saw
him—“Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!
Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment,
and to have necessary comforts administered.”
“Of what service will that be, if she is dying?” said Montoni, with
apparent indifference.
“The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs
of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same
situation,” said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni
soon made her sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then,
forgetting her resentment, and impressed only by compassion for the
piteous state of her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to
humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that
might induce him to relent towards his wife.
For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she
looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily’s eyes,
seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better
feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, that
his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily should
attend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late,
and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid to
thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame
Montoni’s bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her
feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal.
Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was
given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily,
thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it,
as well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and he
suffered his wife to continue where she was.
During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare
such little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her,
and which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she
seemed sensible that they could not save her from approaching
dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile