The Mysteries of Udolpho
Morano had incurred the personal resentment of many members of the
state; his habits of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and his
ambition, and the bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several
public occasions,—to others; and it was not to be expected, that mercy
would soften the rigour of a law, which was to be dispensed from the
hands of his enemies.
Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind. His castle was
besieged by troops, who seemed willing to dare everything, and to
suffer patiently any hardships in pursuit of victory. The strength of
the fortress, however, withstood their attack, and this, with the
vigorous defence of the garrison and the scarcity of provision on these
wild mountains, soon compelled the assailants to raise the siege.
When Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni, he
dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from
considerations of her personal safety, to a place of greater security,
than a castle, which was, at that time, liable to be overrun by his
enemies. Tranquillity being once more restored to Udolpho, he was
impatient to secure her again under his roof, and had commissioned Ugo
to assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle. Thus compelled
to return, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret, and,
after about a fortnight’s stay in Tuscany, where she had experienced an
interval of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain her
long-harassed spirits, began once more to ascend the Apennines, from
whose heights she gave a long and sorrowful look to the beautiful
country, that extended at their feet, and to the distant Mediterranean,
whose waves she had so often wished would bear her back to France. The
distress she felt, on her return towards the place of her former
sufferings, was, however, softened by a conjecture, that Valancourt was
there, and she found some degree of comfort in the thought of being
near him, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was probably a
prisoner.
It was noon when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed,
long before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was a
moon, but it shone only at intervals, for the night was cloudy, and,
lighted by the torch, which Ugo carried, the travellers paced silently
along, Emily musing on her situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating
the comforts of a flask of wine and a good fire, for they had perceived
for some time the difference between the warm climate of the lowlands
of Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper regions. Emily was, at
length, roused from her reverie by the far-off sound of the castle
clock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe, as it
rolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and died
in sullen murmur among the mountains:—to her mournful imagination it
seemed a knell measuring out some fateful period for her.
“Aye, there is the old clock,” said Bertrand, “there he is still; the
cannon have not silenced him!”
“No,” answered Ugo, “he crowed as loud as the best of them in the midst
of it all. There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have seen
this many a day! I said that some of them would have a hit at the old
fellow, but he escaped, and the tower too.”
The road winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within
view of the castle, which was shown in the perspective of the valley by
a gleam of moonshine, and then vanished in shade; while even a
transient view of it had awakened the poignancy of Emily’s feelings.
Its massy and gloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment and
suffering: yet, as she advanced, some degree of hope mingled with her
terror; for, though this was certainly the residence of Montoni, it was
possibly, also, that of Valancourt, and she could not approach a place,
where he might be, without experiencing somewhat of the joy of hope.
They continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw again
the old walls and moonlit towers, rising over the woods: the strong
rays enabled her, also, to perceive the ravages, which the siege had
made,—with the broken walls, and shattered battlements, for they were
now at the foot of the steep, on which Udolpho stood. Massy fragments
had rolled down among the woods, through which the travellers now began
to ascend, and there mingled with the loose earth, and pieces of rock
they had brought with them. The woods, too, had suffered much from the
batteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to screen
themselves from the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were
levelled with the ground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely
stripped of their upper branches. “We had better dismount,” said Ugo,
“and lead the mules up the hill, or we shall get into some of the
holes, which the balls have left. Here are plenty of them. Give me the
torch,” continued Ugo, after they had dismounted, “and take care you
don’t stumble over anything, that lies in your way, for the ground is
not yet cleared of the enemy.”
“How!” exclaimed Emily, “are any of the enemy here, then?”
“Nay, I don’t know for that, now,” he replied, “but when I came away I
saw one or two of them lying under the trees.”
As they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, and
far among the recesses of the woods, and Emily feared to look forward,
lest some object of horror should meet her eye. The path was often
strewn with broken heads of arrows, and with shattered remains of
armour, such as at that period was mingled with the lighter dress of
the soldiers. “Bring the light hither,” said Bertrand, “I have stumbled
over something, that rattles loud enough.” Ugo holding up the torch,
they perceived a steel breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand
raised, and they saw, that it was pierced through, and that the lining
was entirely covered with blood; but upon Emily’s earnest entreaties
that they would proceed, Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the
unfortunate person, to whom it had belonged, threw it hard upon the
ground, and they passed on.
At every step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige of death.
Coming soon after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to
survey the ground, which was encumbered with massy trunks and branches
of the trees, that had so lately adorned it, and seemed to have been a
spot particularly fatal to the besiegers; for it was evident from the
destruction of the trees, that here the hottest fire of the garrison
had been directed. As Ugo held again forth the torch, steel glittered
between the fallen trees; the ground beneath was covered with broken
arms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers, whose mangled forms
Emily almost expected to see; and she again entreated her companions to
proceed, who were, however, too intent in their examination, to regard
her, and she turned her eyes from this desolated scene to the castle
above, where she observed lights gliding along the ramparts. Presently,
the castle clock struck twelve, and then a trumpet sounded, of which
Emily enquired the occasion.
“O! they are only changing watch,” replied Ugo. “I do not remember this
trumpet,” said Emily, “it is a new custom.” “It is only an old one
revived, lady; we always use it in time of war. We have sounded it, at
midnight, ever since the place was besieged.”
“Hark!” said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next
moment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passed
along the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part of the
castle; after which all was again still. She complained of cold, and
begged to go on. “Presently, lady,” said Bertrand, turning over some
broken arms with the pike he usually carried. “What have we here?”
“Hark!” cried Emily, “what noise was that?”
“What noise was it?” said Ugo, starting up and listening.
“Hush!” repeated Emily. “It surely came from the ramparts above:” and,
on looking up, they perceived a light moving along the walls, while, in
the next instant, the breeze swelling, the voice sounded louder than
before.
“Who goes yonder?” cried a sentinel of the castle. “Speak or it will be
worse for you.” Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. “Hah! my brave
comrade, is it you?” said he, and he blew a shrill whistle, which
signal was answered by another from the soldier on watch; and the
party, then passing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon the
broken road, that led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw,
with renewed terror, the whole of that stupendous structure. “Alas!”
said she to herself, “I am going again into my prison!”
“Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!” cried Bertrand, waving a torch
over the ground; “the balls have torn up the earth here with a
vengeance.”
“Aye,” replied Ugo, “they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, and
rare execution they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the great
gates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it there;
for, besides the cannon from the walls, our archers, on the two round
towers, showered down upon them at such a rate, that, by holy Peter!
there was no standing it. I never saw a better sight in my life; I
laughed, till my sides aked, to see how the knaves scampered. Bertrand,
my good fellow, thou shouldst have been among them; I warrant thou
wouldst have won the race!”
“Hah! you are at your old tricks again,” said Bertrand in a surly tone.
“It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I have
killed my man before now.” Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gave
some further account of the siege, to which as Emily listened, she was
struck by the strong contrast of the present scene with that which had
so lately been acted here.
The mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of the
conquered, and the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a
silence so profound, that it seemed as if death had triumphed alike
over the vanquished and the victor. The shattered condition of one of
the towers of the great gates by no means confirmed the _valiant_
account just given by Ugo of the scampering party, who, it was evident,
had not only made a stand, but had done much mischief before they took
to flight; for this tower appeared, as far as Emily could judge by the
dim moonlight that fell upon it, to be laid open, and the battlements
were nearly demolished. While she gazed, a light glimmered through one
of the lower loop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she
perceived through the broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending
the narrow staircase, that wound within the tower, and, remembering
that it was the same she had passed up, on the night, when Barnardine
had deluded her with a promise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy gave her
somewhat of the terror she had then suffered. She was now very near the
gates, over which the soldier having opened the door of the
portal-chamber, the lamp he carried gave her a dusky view of that
terrible apartment, and she almost sunk under the recollected horrors
of the moment, when she had drawn aside the curtain, and discovered the
object it was meant to conceal.
“Perhaps,” said she to herself, “it is now used for a similar purpose;
perhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the corpse
of his friend!” The little remains of her fortitude now gave way to the
united force of remembered and anticipated horrors, for the melancholy
fate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell her own. She considered,
that, though the Languedoc estates, if she relinquished them, would
satisfy Montoni’s avarice, they might not appease his vengeance, which
was seldom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even thought,
that, were she to resign them, the fear of justice might urge him