The Mysteries of Udolpho
“Well, well,” said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on
another subject,—“so he locked you up?”
“Yes, he did indeed, ma’amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to the
contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And in a few
minutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor Verezzi roaring
along the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico’s hall, for
old Carlo’s; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for
more wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying of
thirst. So we were all as still as night, that he might suppose there
was nobody in the room; but the Signor was as cunning as the best of
us, and kept calling out at the door, ‘Come forth, my ancient hero!’
said he, ‘here is no enemy at the gate, that you need hide yourself:
come forth, my valorous Signor Steward!’ Just then old Carlo opened his
door, and he came with a flask in his hand; for, as soon as the Signor
saw him, he was as tame as could be, and followed him away as naturally
as a dog does a butcher with a piece of meat in his basket. All this I
saw through the key-hole. ‘Well, Annette,’ said Ludovico, jeeringly,
‘shall I let you out now?’ ‘O no,’ says I, ‘I would not—’”
“I have some questions to ask you on another subject,” interrupted
Emily, quite wearied by this story. “Do you know whether there are any
prisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this end of
the edifice?”
“I was not in the way, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, “when the first
party came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come back
yet, so I don’t know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is
expected back tonight, or tomorrow, and I shall know then, perhaps.”
Emily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners.
“Ah ma’amselle!” said Annette archly, “now I dare say you are thinking
of Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the armies,
which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against this
state, and that he has met with some of _our_ people, and is taken
captive. O Lord! how glad I should be, if it was so!”
“Would you, indeed, be glad?” said Emily, in a tone of mournful
reproach.
“To be sure I should, ma’am,” replied Annette, “and would not you be
glad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don’t know any chevalier I like
better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.”
“Your regard for him cannot be doubted,” said Emily, “since you wish to
see him a prisoner.”
“Why no, ma’amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to see
him, you know. And it was only the other night I dreamt—I dreamt I saw
him drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed out,
with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he is.”
Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette’s ideas of Valancourt, and
repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of
prisoners.
“No, ma’amselle,” replied she, “never; and lately they have done
nothing but talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a
night on the ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits. It
came among them like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell down
in a row, till they came to themselves again; and then it was gone, and
nothing to be seen but the old castle walls; so they helped one another
up again as fast as they could. You would not believe, ma’amselle,
though I showed you the very cannon, where it used to appear.”
“And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,” said Emily, smiling at this
curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, “as to
credit these stories?”
“Credit them, ma’amselle! why all the world could not persuade me out
of them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went into
fits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, myself, there
was no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, what a pretty
figure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits, all of a row!
The enemy won’t be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost,
and leave them to help one another up, but will fall to, cutting and
slashing, till he makes them all rise up dead men. No, no, says I,
there is reason in all things: though I might have fallen down in a fit
that was no rule for them, being, because it is no business of mine to
look gruff, and fight battles.”
Emily endeavoured to correct the superstitious weakness of Annette,
though she could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter only
replied, “Nay, ma’amselle, you will believe nothing; you are almost as
bad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when they told of
what had happened, and swore that the first man, who repeated such
nonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the east turret. This
was a hard punishment too, for only talking nonsense, as he called it,
but I dare say he had other reasons for calling it so, than you have,
ma’am.”
Emily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon the
recollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and
considered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself
opposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe it
was Valancourt, whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why did he not
speak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so—and, if he was a
prisoner in the castle, and he could be here in no other character, how
could he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart? Thus she
was utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the form she had
observed, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was Valancourt.
She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to learn whether any
prisoners were in the castle, and also their names.
“O dear, ma’amselle!” said Annette, “I forget to tell you what you bade
me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are lately come
to Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor brought to see my
late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was little better then, I
dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be secret, ma’am) that his
_Excellenza_ introduced her only to impose upon the world, that had
begun to make free with her character. So when people saw my lady
notice her, they thought what they had heard must be scandal. The other
two are the mistresses of Signor Verezzi and Signor Bertolini; and
Signor Montoni invited them all to the castle; and so, yesterday, he
gave a great entertainment; and there they were, all drinking Tuscany
wine and all sorts, and laughing and singing, till they made the castle
ring again. But I thought they were dismal sounds, so soon after my
poor lady’s death too; and they brought to my mind what she would have
thought, if she had heard them—but she cannot hear them now, poor soul!
said I.”
Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to
go, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the
castle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to
mention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.
“Now I think of it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “I do believe there are
prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor’s men, yesterday, in the
servants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying what a fine
thing it was for his _Excellenza_ to catch up men, and they were as
good booty as any other, because of the ransoms. And the other man was
grumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but none so
fine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don’t go shares there.”
This information heightened Emily’s impatience to know more, and
Annette immediately departed on her enquiry.
The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now gave
way to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was near
her, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the threatened
vengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he was really in
the castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she received a message
from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the cedar parlour, which she
obeyed with trembling, and, on her way thither, endeavoured to animate
her fortitude with the idea of Valancourt.
Montoni was alone. “I sent for you,” said he, “to give you another
opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning the
Languedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may command.—If
you are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any right to these
estates, at least, do not persist in the error—an error, which you may
perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment no
further, but sign the papers.”
“If I have no right in these estates, sir,” said Emily, “of what
service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning
them? If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them,
without my interference, or my consent.”
“I will have no more argument,” said Montoni, with a look that made her
tremble. “What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended to
reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let the
recollection of your aunt’s sufferings, in consequence of her folly and
obstinacy, teach you a lesson.—Sign the papers.”
Emily’s resolution was for a moment awed:—she shrunk at the
recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but
then, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was
now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the
strong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her
infancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble,
though imprudent, courage.
“Sign the papers,” said Montoni, more impatiently than before.
“Never, sir,” replied Emily; “that request would have proved to me the
injustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.”
Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking eye
made her almost repent the boldness of her speech.
“Then all my vengeance falls upon you,” he exclaimed, with a horrible
oath. “And think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates in
Languedoc, nor Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question my
right,—now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which you
think not of; it is terrible! This night—this very night—”
“This night!” repeated another voice.
Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect
himself, he proceeded in a lower tone.
“You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet
this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.—I could tell
you of others—I could make you tremble at the bare recital.”
He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath the
chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience
and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear
passed over his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door,
for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but
Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features,
resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.
“I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my
character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy
me.—I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken—but I am
talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the
examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for,
though your repentance would put an immediate end to opposition, it
would not now appease my indignation.—I will have vengeance as well as
justice.”
Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made.
“Leave the room instantly!” said he, seeming not to notice this strange