The Mysteries of Udolpho
case is plain enough, I must take it at last.”
Emily’s horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, that
the latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that these men
had been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of
_justice_, in his cause.
“But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,” resumed Bertrand, “he is one of
those, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years ago,
the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was told
me then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about a
lady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse enough to prefer the
gentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so far as to marry him.
This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to talk
reason to her a long while, and used to send people to serenade her,
under her windows, of a night; and used to make verses about her, and
would swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan—But all would not
do—nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went so far
at last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath,
with a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he
watched his opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the
marriage, they set out for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what
was preparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to be
called to no account, but was to go off triumphant; but he was soon
made to know another sort of story.”
“What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?” said Ugo.
“Promised! No,” replied Bertrand, “she had not wit enough even to tell
him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to say,
from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provoked
the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that he
is disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell him
this; she need not have gone, and married another.”
“What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?” said Ugo.
“I don’t know as for that,” replied Bertrand, “they said, indeed, that
she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but that is
nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then the
Signor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expected
what was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear her ill
usage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened. But, as I
said, they set out for Padua, she and her husband, and the road lay
over some barren mountains like these. This suited the Signor’s purpose
well. He watched the time of their departure, and sent his men after
them, with directions what to do. They kept their distance, till they
saw their opportunity, and this did not happen, till the second day’s
journey, when, the gentleman having sent his servants forward to the
next town, maybe to have horses in readiness, the Signor’s men
quickened their pace, and overtook the carriage, in a hollow, between
two mountains, where the woods prevented the servants from seeing what
passed, though they were then not far off. When we came up, we fired
our tromboni, but missed.”
Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken
them; while Bertrand proceeded:
“The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it was
as he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the most
dexterous feat you ever saw—he was struck in the back with three
stillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but the
lady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came up before
she could be taken care of. ‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, when his men
returned—”
“Bertrand!” exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable
of this narrative had been lost.
“Bertrand, did I say?” rejoined the man, with some confusion—“No,
Giovanni. But I have forgot where I was;—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor—
“Bertrand, again!” said Emily, in a faltering voice, “Why do you repeat
that name?”
Bertrand swore. “What signifies it,” he proceeded, “what the man was
called—Bertrand, or Giovanni—or Roberto? it’s all one for that. You
have put me out twice with that—question. Bertrand, or Giovanni—or what
you will—‘Bertrand,’ said the Signor, ‘if your comrades had done their
duty, as well as you, I should not have lost the lady. Go, my honest
fellow, and be happy with this.’ He gave him a purse of gold—and little
enough too, considering the service he had done him.”
“Aye, aye,” said Ugo, “little enough—little enough.”
Emily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support herself.
When first she saw these men, their appearance and their connection
with Montoni had been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now,
when one of them had betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw
herself, at the approach of night, under his guidance, among wild and
solitary mountains, and going she scarcely knew whither, the most
agonizing terror seized her, which was the less supportable from the
necessity she found herself under of concealing all symptoms of it from
her companions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces of Montoni,
it appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for the
purpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself,
without further opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so
long and so desperately contended. Yet, if this was his design, there
appeared no necessity for sending her to such a distance from the
castle; for, if any dread of discovery had made him unwilling to
perpetrate the deed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for
the purpose of concealment. These considerations, however, did not
immediately occur to Emily, with whom so many circumstances conspired
to rouse terror, that she had no power to oppose it, or to enquire
coolly into its grounds; and, if she had done so, still there were many
appearances which would too well have justified her most terrible
apprehensions. She did not now dare to speak to her conductors, at the
sound of whose voices she trembled; and when, now and then, she stole a
glance at them, their countenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom
of evening, served to confirm her fears.
The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts
were tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw a
reddish tint upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as
the breeze rolled over them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily’s heart,
and served to render more gloomy and terrific every object around
her,—the mountains, shaded in twilight—the gleaming torrent, hoarsely
roaring—the black forests, and the deep glen, broken into rocky
recesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore and winding into
long obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye,
thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, was seen, and
still no distant bark of watch-dog, or even faint, far-off halloo came
on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to remind the
guides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had to
go: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attend to
her question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke a
surly answer. Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, the
men collected the fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along this
winding glen, in gloomy silence; while Emily again mused upon her own
situation, and concerning the motives of Montoni for involving her in
it. That it was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could not
doubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with a
view of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her a
while in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might
equally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At this
moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor, a
few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was,
strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle, where
deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed with
secrecy?—from chambers, perhaps
With many a foul, and midnight murder stain’d.
The dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so excessive,
that it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, she
thought of her late father and of all he would have suffered, could he
have foreseen the strange and dreadful events of her future life; and
how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal confidence, which
committed his daughter to the care of a woman so weak as was Madame
Montoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did her present situation
appear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared it with the
repose and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when she
could almost have believed herself the victim of frightful visions,
glaring upon a disordered fancy.
Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors,
their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful
view of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferent
to the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on the
wild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines were
only distinguishable through the dusk;—objects, which but lately had
affected her spirits so much, as to awaken horrid views of the future,
and to tinge these with their own gloom.
It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only by
the slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, which
seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, showing,
at intervals, the trembling stars; while the groves of cypress and
sycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the breeze, as it
swept over the glen, and then rushed among the distant woods. Emily
shivered as it passed.
“Where is the torch?” said Ugo, “it grows dark.”
“Not so dark yet,” replied Bertrand, “but we may find our way, and ’tis
best not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray us, if
any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.”
Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they
proceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might
discover them; for from change there was something to hope, since she
could scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present
one.
As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin
tapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, which
Bertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of the
sentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said was an
omen. The event immediately following it appeared to justify the
assertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily’s mind,
which the present appearance confirmed. She thought it was an omen of
her own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, in gloomy
silence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand.
“Let us light the torch,” said he, “and get under shelter of the
woods;—a storm is coming on—look at my lance.”
He held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point.*
(*Note: See the Abbé Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.])
“Aye,” said Ugo, “you are not one of those, that believe in omens: we
have left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight. I
have often seen it before a thunder-storm, it is an omen of that, and
one is coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already.”
Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of
superstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo