The Mysteries of Udolpho
not attend; and it was so very grievous to her to think that the
remains of her unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one
relative, or friend to pay them the last decent rites, that she
determined to be deterred by no considerations for herself, from
observing this duty. She would otherwise have shrunk from the
circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which they were to
be carried by men whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them for
murderers, at the midnight hour of silence and privacy, which Montoni
had chosen for committing, if possible, to oblivion the reliques of a
woman, whom his harsh conduct had, at least, contributed to destroy.
Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by
Annette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in
cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it,
till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of the
men, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty that
Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrown
open, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch
they carried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on
their shoulders, while the third preceding them with the light,
descended through the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower
vault of the chapel within the castle walls.
They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle,
which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence
and gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily’s mind,
occupied as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard
the low and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the
ivied battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the
bat, which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered the
chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles, the
bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched
door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw
imperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;—saw the corpse of her aunt carried
down these steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch
at the bottom to receive it—all her fortitude was lost in emotions of
inexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who
was cold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the
summit of the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on
the pillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view.
Then, the gloom around her awakening other fears, and a sense of what
she considered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance, she descended
to the vaults, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that
pierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that
was opened to receive the corpse, again appalled her.
After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the
vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down the
body near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni’s
men and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burial
service; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerable
figure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn and
affecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in which
they let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only the
dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. The
fierce features and wild dress of the _condottieri_, bending with their
torches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, were
contrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long black
garments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light
gleaming strongly showed the lines of affliction softened by piety, and
the few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while, beside
him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support upon
Annette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fell
over her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed in grief
so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committed
untimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrown
between the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the broken
ground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recently
interred, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, that
alone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenes more
horrible than even that which was pictured at the grave of the
misguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.
When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention and
surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was
restrained by the presence of the _condottieri_, who, as they now led
the way to the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy
order, which he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted
safely to his convent, and to which Emily listened with concern and
even horror. When they reached the court, the monk gave her his
blessing, and, after a lingering look of pity, turned away to the
portal, whither one of the men carried a torch; while Annette, lighting
another, preceded Emily to her apartment. The appearance of the friar
and the expression of tender compassion, with which he had regarded
her, had interested Emily, who, though it was at her earnest
supplication, that Montoni had consented to allow a priest to perform
the last rites for his deceased wife, knew nothing concerning this
person, till Annette now informed her, that he belonged to a monastery,
situated among the mountains at a few miles distance. The Superior, who
regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with aversion, but with
terror, had probably feared to offend him by refusing his request, and
had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate at the funeral, who, with
the meek spirit of a christian, had overcome his reluctance to enter
the walls of such a castle, by the wish of performing what he
considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel was built on consecrated
ground, had not objected to commit to it the remains of the late
unhappy Madame Montoni.
Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of
mind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed.
She, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni to
permit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she
could scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too certain that he did
so, and the absolute refusal he had formerly given to her departure
allowed her little hope, that he would now consent to it. But the
horror, which his presence inspired, made her defer, from day to day,
the mention of this subject; and at last she was awakened from her
inactivity only by a message from him, desiring her attendance at a
certain hour. She began to hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt
was no more, the authority he had usurped over her; till she
recollected, that the estates, which had occasioned so much contention,
were now hers, and she then feared Montoni was about to employ some
stratagem for obtaining them, and that he would detain her his
prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought, instead of overcoming her
with despondency, roused all the latent powers of her fortitude into
action; and the property, which she would willingly have resigned to
secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved, that no common sufferings
of her own should ever compel her to give to Montoni. For Valancourt’s
sake also she determined to preserve these estates, since they would
afford that competency, by which she hoped to secure the comfort of
their future lives. As she thought of this, she indulged the tenderness
of tears, and anticipated the delight of that moment, when, with
affectionate generosity, she might tell him they were his own. She saw
the smile, that lighted up his features—the affectionate regard, which
spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, at this instant, she believed
she could brave any suffering, which the evil spirit of Montoni might
be preparing for her. Remembering then, for the first time since her
aunt’s death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she
determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni
was over.
With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited to
hear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsino
and another officer, and both were standing near a table, covered with
papers, which he appeared to be examining.
“I sent for you, Emily,” said Montoni, raising his head, “that you
might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my
friend Orsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to
this paper:” he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some
lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She
took it, and was going to write—when the design of Montoni came upon
her mind like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and
refused to sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to laugh at her
scruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily,
who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, that
her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively refused to
sign any paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered in
affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her
steady perseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his
manner, and bade her follow him to another room. There he told her,
that he had been willing to spare himself and her the trouble of
useless contest, in an affair, where his will was justice, and where
she should find it law; and had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade,
rather than to compel, her to the practice of her duty.
“I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,” he added, “am the heir
of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused to me
in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own sake, I
would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to
you in my hearing—that these estates would be yours, if she died
without resigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power
to withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you have more
sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. I am
not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive, as
sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you possess an
understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have none of
those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the female
character—such as avarice and the love of power, which latter makes
women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. If
I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereign
contempt these common failings of your sex.”
Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew
him too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless
he thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had
forborne to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident,
that he considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to
sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.
“Judging as I do,” resumed Montoni, “I cannot believe you will oppose,
where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish to
conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justice on
your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with the
alternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, you