[]THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.

CHAP. I.

IN the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De Villefort requeſted to ſee her, ſhe gueſſed that Valancourt was below, and, endeavouring to aſſume com⯑poſure and to recollect all her ſpirits, ſhe roſe and left the apartment; but on reach⯑ing the door of the library, where ſhe ima⯑gined him to be, her emotion returned with [2] ſuch energy, that, fearing to truſt herſelf in the room, The returned into the hall, where ſhe continued for a conſiderable time, un⯑able to command her agitated ſpirits.

When ſhe could recall them, ſhe found in the library Valancourt, ſeated with the Count, who both roſe on her entrance; but ſhe did not dare to look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair, immediate⯑ly withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under ſuch oppreſſion of heart, that ſhe could not ſpeak, and with difficulty breathed; while Valancourt threw himſelf into a chair beſide her, and, ſighing heavily, continued ſilent, when, had ſhe raiſed her eyes, ſhe would have perceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he ſaid, "I have ſolicited to ſee you this evening, that I might, at leaſd, be ſpared the further torture of ſuſpenſe, which your altered manner had occaſioned me, and which the [3] hints I have juſt received from the Count have in part explained. I perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happineſs, and who have been buſy in ſearching out the means to deſtroy it: I perceive, too, that time and abſence have weakened the affection you once felt. for me, and that you can now eaſily be taught to forget me."

His laſt words faltered, and Emily, leſs able to ſpeak than before, continued ſilent.

"O what a meeting is this!" exclaimed Valancourt, ſtarting from his ſeat, and pac⯑ing the room with hurried ſteps, "what a meeting is this, aſter our long—long ſepa⯑ration!" Again he ſat down, and, after the ſtruggle of a moment, he added in a firm but deſpairing tone, "This is too much—I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not ſpeak to me?"

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and took Emily's, which ſhe did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer be reſtrained; and, when [4] he raiſed his eyes and perceived that ſhe was weeping, all his tenderneſs returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to croſs his mind, for he exclaimed, "O! you do pity me, then, you do love me! Yes, you are ſtill my own Emily—let me believe thoſe tears, that tell me ſo!"

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmneſs, and, haſtily drying them, "Yes," ſaid ſhe, "I do pity you—I weep for you—but, ought I to think of you with affec⯑tion? You may remember, that yeſter-even⯑ing I ſaid, I had ſtill ſufficient confidence in your candour to believe, that, when I ſhould requeſt an explanation of your words, you would give it. This explana⯑tion is now unneceſſary, I underſtand them too well; but prove, at leaſt, that your candour is deſerving of the confidence I give it, when I aſk you, whether you are conſcious of being the ſame eſtimable Valan⯑court—whom I once loved."

"Once loved!" cried he,—"the ſame—the ſame!" He pauſed in extreme emotion, [5] and then added, in a voice at once ſolemn, and dejected,—"No—I am not the ſame!—I am loſt—I am no longer worthy of you!"

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honeſt confeſſion to reply immediately, and, while ſhe ſtrug⯑gled to overcome the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the deciſive firmneſs, which was neceſſary for her future peace, ſhe per⯑ceived all the danger of truſting long to her reſolution, in the pretence of Valancourt, and was anxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet, when ſhe conſidered, that this was probably their laſt meeting, her fortitude ſunk at Once, and ſhe experienced only emotions of tenderneſs and of deſpondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, loſt in emotions of remorſe and grief, which he had neither the power, or the will to expreſs, ſat inſen⯑ſible almoſt of the preſence of Emily, his features ſtill concealed, and his breaſt agi⯑tated by convulſive ſighs.

[6] "Spare me the neceſſity," ſaid Emily, re⯑collecting her fortitude, "ſpare me the ne⯑ceſſity of mentioning thoſe circumſtances of your conduct, which oblige me to break our connection forever.—We muſt part, I now ſee you for the laſt time."

"Impoſſible!" cried Valancourt, rouſed from his deep ſilence, "You cannot mean what you ſay!—you cannot mean to throw me from you forever!"

"We muſt part," repeated Emily, with emphaſis,—"and that forever! Your own conduct has made this neceſſary,"

"This is the Count's determination," ſaid he haughtily, "not yours, and I ſhall enquire by what authority he interferes be⯑tween us." He now roſe, and walked about the room in great emotion.

"Let me ſave you from this error," ſaid Emily, not leſs agitated—"it is my deter⯑mination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, you will perceive, that my future peace requires it."

"Your future peace requires, that we [7] ſhould part—part forever!" ſaid Valan⯑court, "How little did I ever expect to hear you ſay ſo!"

"And how little did I expect, that it would be neceſſary for me to ſay ſo!" re⯑joined Emily, while her. voice ſoftened into tenderneſs, and her tears flowed again.—"That you—you, Valancourt, would ever fall from my eſteem!"

He was ſilent a moment, as if over⯑whelmed by the conſciouſneſs of no longer deſerving this eſteem, as well as the certain⯑ty of having loſt it, and then, with impaſ⯑ſioned grief, lamented the criminality of his late conduct and the miſery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome by a recollec⯑tion of the paſt and a conviction of the future, he burſt into tears, and uttered only deep and broken ſighs.

The remorſe he had expreſſed, and the diſtreſs he ſuffered could not be witneſſed by Emily with indifference, and, had ſhe not called to her recollection all the cir⯑cumſtances, of which Count De Villefort had [8] informed her, and all he had ſaid of the danger of confiding in repentance, formed under the influence of paſſion, ſhe might perhaps have truſted to the aſſurances of her heart, and have forgotten his miſconduct in the tenderneſs, which that repentance ex⯑cited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beſide, her, at length, ſaid, in a calm voice, "'Tis true, I am fallen—fallen from my own eſ⯑teem! but could you, Emily, ſo ſoon, ſo ſuddenly reſign, if you had not before ceaſed to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the deſigns, I will ſay, the ſelf⯑iſh deſigns of another perſon! Would you not otherwiſe be willing to hope for my re⯑formation—and could you bear, by eſtran⯑ging me from you, to abandon me to mi⯑ſery—to myſelf!"—Emily wept aloud.—"No, Emily—no—you would not do this, if you ſtill loved me. You would find your own happineſs in ſaving mine."

"There are too many probabilities againſt that hope," ſaid E.mily, "to juſ⯑tify [9] me in truſting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not alſo aſk, whether you could wiſh me to do this, if you really loved me?"

"Really loved you!" exclaimed Valan⯑court—"is it poſſible you can doubt my love! Yet it is reaſonable, that you ſhould do ſo, ſince you ſee, that I am leſs ready to ſuffer the horror of parting with you, than that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily—I am ruined—irreparably ruined—I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!" Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he ſpoke this, ſoon ſettled into an expreſſion of gloomy deſpair; and Emily, while ſhe was compelled to admire his ſin⯑cerity, ſaw, with unutterable anguiſh, new reaſons for fear in the ſuddenneſs of his feel⯑ings and the extent of the miſery, in which they might involve him. After ſome minutes, ſhe ſeemed to contend againſt her grief and to ſtruggle for fortitude to con⯑clude the interview. I will not prolong theſe moments," ſaid ſhe, "by a converſation, [10] which can anſwer no good purpoſe. Va⯑lancourt, farewell!"

"You are not going?" ſaid he, wildly interrupting her—"You will not leave me thus—you will not abandon me even be⯑fore my mind has ſuggeſted any poſſibility of compromiſe between the laſt indulgence of my deſpair and the endurance of my loſs!" Emily was terrified by the ſternneſs of his look, and ſaid, in a ſoothing voice, "You have yourſelf acknowledged, that it is ne⯑ceſſary we mould part;—if you wiſh, that I ſhould believe you love me, you will re⯑peat the acknowledgment."—"Never—never," cried he—"I was diſtracted when I made it. O! Emily—this is too much;—though you are not deceived as to my faults, you muſt be deluded into this ex⯑aſperation againſt them. The Count is the barrier between us; but he ſhall not long remain ſo."

"You are, indeed, diſtracted," ſaid Emily, "the Count is not your enemy; on the contrary, he is my friend, and that [11] might, in ſome degree, induce you to con⯑ſider him as yours."—"Your friend!" ſaid Valancourt, haſtily, "how long has he been your friend, that he can ſo eaſily make you forget your lover? Was it he, who re⯑commended to your favour the Monſieur Dupont, who, you ſay, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I ſay, has ſtolen your affections? But I have no right to queſtion you;—you are your own miſtreſs. Du⯑pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen fortunes! Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of Valan⯑court, ſaid, in a tone ſcarcely audible, "For heaven's ſake be reaſonable—be com⯑poſed. Monſieur Dupont is not your rival, nor is the Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourſelf, an enemy. My heart is wrung with anguiſh, which muſt increaſe while your frantic behaviour ſhews me, more than ever, that you are no longer the Valancourt I have been accuſtomed to love."

He made no reply, but ſat with his arms [12] reſted on the table and his face concealed by his hands; while Emily ſtood, ſilent and trembling, wretched for herſelf and dread⯑ing to leave him in this ſtate of mind.

"O exceſs of miſery!" he ſuddenly ex⯑claimed, "that I can never lament my ſuf⯑ferings, without accuſing myſelf, nor re⯑member you, without recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have loſt you! Why was I forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make me deſpicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption, to thoſe days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!"—The recollection ſeem⯑ed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of de⯑ſpair yielded to tears. After a long pauſe, turning towards her and taking her hand, he ſaid, in a ſoftened voice, "Emily, can you bear that we ſhould part—can you re⯑ſolve to give up an heart, that loves you like mine—an heart, which, though it has erred—widely erred, is not irretrievable from error, as you well know, it never can [13] be retrievable from love?" Emily made no reply, but with her tears. "Can you," continued he, "can you forget all our former days of happineſs and confidence—when I had not a thought, that I might wiſh to conceal from you—when I had no taſte—no pleaſures, in which you did not participate?"

"O do not lead me to the remembrance of thoſe days," ſaid Emily, "unleſs you can teach me to forget the preſent; I do not mean to reproach you; if I did, I ſhould be ſpared theſe tears; but why will you render your preſent ſufferings more conſpicuous, by contraſting them with your former virtues?"

"Thoſe virtues," ſaid Valancourt, "might, perhaps, again be mine, if your affection, which nurtured them, was un⯑changed;—but I fear, indeed, I ſee, that you can no longer love me; elſe the happy hours, which we have paſſed together, would plead for me, and you could not look back upon them unmoved. Yet, why ſhould I [14] torture myſelf with the remembrance—why do I linger here? Am I not ruined—would it not be madneſs to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was ſtill my own? I will not diſtreſs you further. Yet, before I go," added he, in a ſolemn voice, "let me repeat, that, whatever may⯑be my deſtiny—whatever I may be doomed to ſuffer, I muſt always love you—moſt fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leave you—to leave you, forever!" As he ſpoke the laſt words, his voice trem⯑bled, and he threw himſelf again into the chair, from which he had riſen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to ſay farewell. All impreſſion of his cri⯑minal conduct and almoſt of his follies was obliterated from her mind, and ſhe was ſen⯑ſible only of pity and grief.

"My fortitude is gone," ſaid Valancourt at length; "I can no longer even ſtruggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you—I cannot bid you an eternal farewell; ſay, at leaſt, that you will ſee me once again." [15] Emily's heart was ſomewhat relieved by the requeſt, and ſhe endeavoured to be⯑lieve, that ſhe ought not to refuſe it. Yet ſhe was embarraſſed by recollecting, that ſhe was a viſitor in the houſe of the Count, who could not be pleaſed by the return of Valancourt. Other conſiderations, how⯑ever, ſoon overcame this, and ſhe granted his requeſt, on the condition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor Dupont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, ſo much lightened by this ſhort reſpite, that he almoſt loſt every former ſenſe of misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that ſhe might compote her ſpirits and remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the cenſorious remarks of the Counteſs and her favourite, as well as excite the curioſity of the reſt of the family. She found it, how⯑ever, impoſſible to tranquillize her mind, from which ſhe could not expel the remem⯑brance of the late ſcene with Valancourt, or [16] the conſciouſneſs, that ſhe was to ſee him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more terrible to her than the laſt, for the ingenuous confeſſion he had made of his ill conduct and his embarraſſed cir⯑cumſtances, with the ſtrength and tenderneſs of affection, which this confeſſion diſcovered, had deeply impreſſed her, and, in ſpite of all ſhe had heard and believed to his diſad⯑vantage, her eſteem began to return. It fre⯑quently appeared to her impoſſible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reported of him, which, if not inconſiſtent with his warmth and impetuoſity, were en⯑tirely ſo with his candour and ſenſibility. Whatever was the criminality, which had given riſe to the reports, ſhe could not now believe them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally cloſed againſt the charms of virtue. The deep conſciouſneſs, which he felt as well as expreſſed of his errors, ſeemed to juſtify the opinion; and, as ſhe un⯑derſtood not the instability of youthful diſ⯑poſitions, [17] poſitions, when oppoſed by habit, and that proſeſſions frequently deceive thoſe, who make, as well as thoſe, who hear them, ſhe might have yielded to the flattering perſua⯑ſions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt, had ſhe not been guided by the ſuperior prudence of the Count. He repre⯑ſented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her preſent ſituation, that of liſtening to promiſes of amendment, made under the in⯑fluence of ſtrong paſſion, and the ſlight hope, which could attach to a connection, whoſe chance of happineſs reſted upon the retrie⯑val of ruined circumſtances and the reform of corrupted habits. On theſe accounts, he lamented, that Emily had conſented to a ſe⯑cond interview, for he ſaw how much it would ſhake her reſolution and increaſe the difficulty of her conqueſt.

Her mind was now ſo entirely occupied by nearer intereſts, that ſhe forgot the old houſekeeper and the promiſed hiſtory, which ſo lately had excited her curioſity, but which [18] Dorothée was probably not very anxious to diſcloſe, for night came; the hours paſſed; and ſhe did not appear in Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a ſleepleſs and diſmal night; the more ſhe ſuffered her memory to dwell on the late ſcenes with Valancourt, the more her reſolution declined, and ſhe was obliged to recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made uſe of to ſtrengthen it, and all the precepts, which ſhe had received from her deceaſed father, on the ſubject of ſelf-command, to enable her to act, with prudence and dignity, on this the moſt ſevere occaſion of her life. There were moments, when all her fortitude for⯑ſook her, and when, remembering the con⯑fidence of former times, ſhe thought it im⯑poſſible, that ſhe could renounce Valan⯑court. His reformation then appeared cer⯑tain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; ſhe readily believed all ſhe wiſhed, and was willing to encounter any evil, rather than that of an immediate ſe⯑paration.

[19] Thus paſſed the night in ineffectual ſtrug⯑gles between affection and reaſon, and ſhe roſe, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and irreſolute, and a frame, trembling with illneſs.

CHAP. II.

VALANCOURT, meanwhile, ſuffered the tortures of remorſe and deſpair. The ſight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he firſt loved her, and which had ſuf⯑fered a temporary abatement from abſence and the paſſing ſcenes of buſy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he ſet out for Lan⯑guedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him in ruin, and it was no part of his deſign to conceal this from her. But he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct muſt give to their marriage, and did not foreſee, that the information could in⯑duce her to break their connection forever. While the proſpect of this ſeparation over⯑whelmed his mind, before ſtung with ſelf-reproach, he awaited their ſecond inter⯑view, [21] in a ſtate little ſhort of diſtraction, yet was ſtill inclined to hope, that his plead⯑ings might prevail upon her not to exact it. In the morning, he ſent to know at what hour ſhe would ſee him; and his note arrived, when ſhe was with the Count, who had ſought an opportunity of again conver⯑ſing with her of Valancourt; for he per⯑ceived the extreme diſtreſs of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her forti⯑tude would deſert her. Emily having diſ⯑miſſed the meſſenger, the Count returned to the ſubject of their late converſation, urging his fear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her the lengthened miſery, that muſt enſue, if ſhe ſhould refuſe to en⯑counter ſome preſent uneaſineſs. His re⯑peated arguments could, indeed, alone have protected her from the affection ſhe ſtill felt for Valancourt, and ſhe reſolved to be go⯑verned by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at leaſt, with compoſure of manner, but Valancourt was ſo much [22] agitated, that he could not ſpeak, for ſeveral minutes, and his firſt words were alternately thoſe of lamentation, entreaty and ſelf-re⯑proach. Afterward, he ſaid, "Emily, I have loved you—I do love you, better than my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would ſeek to entangle you in a connec⯑tion, that muſt be miſerable for you, rather than ſubject myſelf to the puniſhment, which is my due, the loſs of you. I am a wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.—I will not endeavour to ſhake your reſolu⯑tion by the pleadings of a ſelfiſh paſſion. I reſign you, Emily, and will endeavour to find conſolation in conſidering, that, though I am miſerable, you, at leaſt, may be happy. The merit of the ſacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I ſhould never have attained ſtrength of mind to ſurrender you, if your prudence had not demanded it."

He pauſed a moment, while Emily at⯑tempted to conceal the tears, which came to her eyes. She would have ſaid, "You ſpeak now, as you were wont to do," but [23] ſhe checked herſelf.—"Forgive me, Emi⯑ly," ſaid he, "all the ſufferings I have oc⯑caſioned you, and, ſometimes, when you think of the wretched Valancourt, remem⯑ber, that his only conſolation would be to believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly." The tears now fell faſt upon her cheek, and he was relapſing into the phrenſy of deſpair, when Emily endeavoured to re⯑call her fortitude and to terminate an inter⯑view, which only ſeemed to increaſe the diſ⯑treſs of both. Perceiving her tears and that ſhe was riſing to go, Valancourt ſtruggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to ſooth hers. "The remembrance of this ſorrow," ſaid he, "ſhall in future be my protection. O! never again will ex⯑ample, or temptation have power to ſeduce me to evil, exalted as I ſhall be by the re⯑collection of your grief for me."

Emily was ſomewhat comforted by this aſſurance. "We are now parting for ever," ſaid ſhe; "but, if my happineſs is dear to you, you will always remember, that no⯑thing [24] can contribute to it more, than to be⯑lieve, that you have recovered your own eſ⯑teem." Valancourt took her hand;—his eyes were covered with tears, and the farewell he would have ſpoken was loſt in ſighs. After a few moments, Emily ſaid, with difficulty and emotion, "Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!" She repeated her "farewell," and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he ſtill held it and bathed it with his tears. "Why prolong theſe moments?" ſaid Emily, in a voice ſcarcely audible, "they are too painful to us both." "This is too—too much," exclaimed Valancourt, reſigning her hand and throwing himſelf into a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome, for ſome moments, by convulſive ſighs. After a long pauſe, du⯑ring which Emily wept in ſilence, and Va⯑lancourt ſeemed ſtruggling with his grief, ſhe again roſe to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his compoſure, "I am again afflicting you," ſaid he, "but let the anguiſh I ſuffer plead for me." He [25] then added, in a ſolemn voice, which fre⯑quently trembled with the agitation of his heart, "Farewell, Emily, you will always be the only object of my tenderneſs. Sometimes you will think of the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not be with eſteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you—without your eſteem!" He checked himſelf—"I am falling again into the error I have juſt la⯑mented. I muſt not intrude longer upon your patience, or I ſhall relapſe into de⯑ſpair."

He once more bade Emily adieu, preſſed her hand to his lips, looked at her, for the laſt time, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppreſſed with a pain at her heart, which ſcarcely permitted her to breathe, and liſtening to his departing ſteps, ſinking fainter and fainter, as he croſſed the hall. She was, at length, rouſed by the [26] voice of the Counteſs in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the firſt object, which ſtruck her ſight, was the vacant chair, where Valancourt had ſat. The tears, which had been, for ſome time, repreſſ⯑ed by the kind of aſtoniſhment, that fol⯑lowed his departure▪ now came to her relief, and ſhe was, at length, ſufficiently compoſcd to return to her own room.

CHAP. III.

WE now return to the mention of Montoni, whoſe rage and diſappointment were ſoon loſt in nearer intereſts, than any, which the unhappy Emily had awakened. His depredations having exceeded their uſual limits, and reached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then-commercial ſenate of Venice, nor their hope of his occaſional aſſiſtance would permit them to connive, the ſame effort, it was reſolved, ſhould com⯑plete the ſuppreſſion of his power and the correction of his outrages. While a corps of conſiderable ſtrength was upon the point of receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly by reſent⯑ment, [28] for ſome injury, received from Mon⯑toni, and partly by the hope of diſtinction, ſolicited an interview with the Miniſter, who directed the enterpriſe. To him he repreſented, that the ſituation of Udolpho rendered it too ſtrong to be taken by open force, except after ſome tedious operations; that Montoni had lately ſhewn how capable he was of adding to its ſtrength all the ad⯑vantages, which could be derived from the ſkill of a commander; that ſo conſiderable a body of troops, as that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho without his knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the republic to have a large part of its regular force employed, for ſuch a time as the ſiege of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a hand⯑ful of banditti. The object of the expedi⯑tion, he thought, might be accompliſhed much more ſafely and ſpeedily by mingling contrivance with force. It was poſſible to meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack them then; or, by ap⯑proaching [29] the fortreſs, with the ſecrecy, con⯑ſiſtent with the march of ſmaller bodies of troops, to take advantage either of the treachery, or negligence of ſome of his party, and to ruſh unexpectedly upon the whole even in the caſtle of Udolpho.

This advice was ſeriouſly attended to, and the officer, who gave it, received the com⯑mand of the troops, demanded for his pur⯑poſe. His firſt efforts were accordingly thoſe of contrivance alone. In the neighbour⯑hood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had ſecu⯑red the aſſiſtance of ſeveral of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that he addreſſed, unwilling to puniſh their imperious maſter and to ſecure their own pardon from the ſenate. He learned alſo the number of Montoni's troops, and that it had been much increaſed, ſince his late ſucceſſes. The concluſion of his plan was ſoon effected. Having returned with his party, who received the watch-word and other aſſiſtance from their friends with⯑in, Montoni and his officers were ſurpriſed by one diviſion, who had been directed to [30] their apartment, while the other maintained the ſlight combat, which preceded the ſur⯑render of the whole garriſon. Among the perſons, ſeized with Montoni, was Orſino, the aſſaſſin, who had joined him on his firſt arrival at Udolpho, and whole concealment had been made known to the ſenate by Count Morano, after the unſucceſsful at⯑tempt of the latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for the purpoſe of cap⯑turing this man, by whom one of the ſenate had been murdered, that the expedition was undertaken, and its ſucceſs was ſo ac⯑ceptable to them, that Morano was inſtantly releaſed, notwithstanding the political ſuſpi⯑cions, which Montoni, by his ſecret accu⯑ſation, had excited againſt him. The ce⯑lerity and eaſe, with which this whole tranſ⯑action was completed, prevented it from at⯑tracting curioſity, or even from obtaining a place in any of the publiſhed records of that time; ſo that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the defeat and ſignal humiliation of her late perſecutor.

[31] Her mind was now occupied with ſuf⯑ferings, which no effort of reaſon had yet been able to controul. Count de Villefort, who ſincerely attempted whatever benevolence could ſuggeſt for ſoftening them, ſometimes allowed her the ſolitude ſhe wiſhed for, ſometimes led her into friendly parties, and conſtantly protected her, as much as poſſi⯑ble, from the ſhrewd enquiries and critical converſation of the Counteſs. He often in⯑vited her to make excurſions, with him and his daughter, during which he converſed entirely on queſtions, ſuitable to her taſte, without appearing to conſult it, and thus endeavoured gradually to withdraw her from the ſubject of her grief, and to awake other intereſts in her mind. Emily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and protector of her youth, ſoon felt for him the tender affection of a daughter, and her heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a ſiſter, whoſe kindneſs and ſimplicity compenſated for the want of more brilliant qualities. It was long before ſhe could ſuf⯑ficiently [32] abſtract her mind from Valancourt to liſten to the ſtory, promiſed by old Do⯑rothée, concerning which her curioſity had once been ſo deeply intereſted; but Doro⯑thée, at length, reminded her of it, and Emily deſired, that ſhe would come, that night, to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed by con⯑ſiderations, which weakened her curioſity, and Dorothée's tap at the door, ſoon after twelve, ſurpriſed her almoſt as much as if it had not been appointed. "I am come, at laſt, lady," ſaid ſhe; "I wonder what it is makes my old limbs ſhake ſo, to⯑night. I thought, once or twice, I ſhould have dropped, as I was a coming." Emily ſeated her in a chair, and deſired, that ſhe would compoſe her ſpirits, before ſhe entered upon the ſubject, that had brought her thither. "Alas," ſaid Dorothée, "it is thinking of that, I believe, which has dis⯑turbed me ſo. In my way hither too, I paſſed the chamber, where my dear lady died, and every thing was ſo ſtill and gloomy [33] about me, that I almoſt fancied I ſaw her, as ſhe appeared upon her death-bed."

Emily now drew her chair near to Doro⯑thée, who went on. "It is about twenty years ſince my lady Marchioneſs came a bride to the chateau. O! I well remember how ſhe looked, when ſhe came into the great hall, where we ſervants were all aſſem⯑bled to welcome her, and how happy my lord the Marquis ſeemed. Ah! who would have thought then!—But, as I was ſaying, ma'amſelle, I thought the Marchioneſs, with all her ſweet looks, did not look happy at heart, and ſo I told my huſband, and he ſaid it was all fancy; ſo I ſaid no more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My lady Marchioneſs was then about your age, and, as I have often thought, very like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open houſe, for a long time, and gave ſuch en⯑tertainments and there were ſuch gay doings as have never been in the chateau ſince. I was younger, ma'amſelle, then; than I am now, and was as gay as the beſt of [34] them. I remember I danced with Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, not ſuch as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons all about it. It was very becoming truly;—my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he was a good-natured gentleman then—who. would have thought that he!"—

"But the Marchioneſs, Dorothée," ſaid Emily, "you was telling me of her."

"O yes, my lady Marchioneſs, I thought ſhe did not ſeem happy at heart, and once, ſoon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber; but, when ſhe ſaw me, ſhe dried her eyes, and pretended to ſmile. I did not dare then to aſk what was the mat⯑ter; but, the next time I ſaw her crying, I did, and ſhe ſeemed diſpleaſed;—ſo I ſaid no more. I found out, ſome time after, how it was. Her father, it ſeems, had commanded her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another nobleman, or elſe a chevalier, that ſhe liked better and that was very fond of her, and ſhe fretted [35] for the loſs of him, I fancy, but ſhe never told me ſo. My lady always tried to conceal her tears from the Marquis, for I have often ſeen her, after ſhe has been ſo ſorrowful, look ſo calm and ſweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of a ſudden, grew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind ſometimes to my lady. This afflicted her very much, as I ſaw, for ſhe never com⯑plained, and ſhe uſed to try ſo ſweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good humour, that my heart has often ached to ſee it. But he uſed to be ſtubborn, and give her harſh anſwers, and then, when ſhe found it all in vain, ſhe would go to her own room, and cry ſo! I uſed to hear her in the anti-room, poor dear lady! but I ſeldom ventured to go to her. I uſed, ſometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be ſure my lady was greatly admired, but ſhe was too good to deſerve ſuſpicion. Among the many; che⯑valiers, that viſited at the chateau, there was one, that I always thought ſeemed juſt ſuited for my lady; he was ſo courteous, yet [36] ſo ſpirited, and there was ſuch a grace, as it were, in all he did, or ſaid. I always ob⯑ſerved, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head, that this was the chevalier ſhe ought to have married, but I never could learn for cer⯑tain."

"What was the chevalier's name Doro⯑thée?" ſaid Emily.

"Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amſelle, for evil may come of it. I once heard from a perſon, who is ſince dead, that the Marchioneſs was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been privately married to the gentleman ſhe was ſo much attached to, and was afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very ſtern man; but this ſeems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I was ſaying, the Marquis was moſt out of humour, as I thought, when the chevalier I ſpoke of had been at the chateau, and, at laſt, his ill treatment of my lady made her [37] quite miſerable. He would ſee hardly any viſitors at the caſtle, and made her live almoſt by herſelf. I was her conſtant attendant, and ſaw all ſhe ſuffered, but ſtill ſhe never eomplained.

"After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill, and I thought her long fretting had made her ſo,—but, alas! I fear it was worſe than that."

"Worſe! Dorothée," ſaid Emily, "can that be poſſible?"

"I fear, it was ſo, madam, there were ſtrange appearances! But I will only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis—"

"Huſh, Dorothée, what ſounds were thoſe?" ſaid Emily.

Dorothée changed countenance, and, while they both liſtened, they heard, on the ſtillneſs of the night, muſic of uncommon ſweetneſs.

"I have ſurely heard that voice before!" ſaid Emily, at length.

"I have often heard it, and at this ſame hour," ſaid Dorothée, ſolemnly, "and, if ſpirits [38] ever bring muſic—that is ſurely the muſic of one!"

Emily, as the ſounds drew nearer, knew them to be the ſame ſhe had formerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that ſhe was ſtruck with ſuperſtitious awe, it is certain ſhe was ſo much affected, that ſhe had nearly fainted.

"I think I once told you, madam," ſaid Dorothée, "that I firſt heard this muſic, ſoon after my lady's death! I well remem⯑ber the night!"—

"Hark! it comes again!" ſaid Emily, "let us open the window, and liſten."

They did ſo; but, ſoon, the ſounds floated gradually away into diſtance, and all was again ſtill; they ſeemed to have ſunk among the woods, whoſe tufted tops were viſible upon the clear horizon, while every other feature of the ſcene was involved in the night-ſhade, which, however, allowed [39] the eye an indiſtinct view of ſome objects in the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe upon the obſcu⯑rity beneath, and then upon the cloudleſs arch above, enlightened only by the ſtars, Dorothée, in a low voice, reſumed her nar⯑rative.

"I was ſaying, ma'amſelle, that I well remember when firſt I heard that muſic. It was one night, ſoon after my lady's death, that I had ſat up later than uſual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking a great deal about my poor miſ⯑treſs, and of the ſad ſcene I had lately wit⯑neſſed. The chateau was quite ſtill, and I was in a chamber at a good diſtance from the reſt-of the ſervants, and this, with the mournful things I had been thinking of, I ſuppoſe, made me low ſpirited, for I felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and liſt⯑ened often, wishing to hear a ſound in the chateau, for you know, ma'amſelle, when one can hear people moving, one does not [40] ſo much mind, about, one's fears. But all the ſervants were gone to bed, and I ſat, thinking and thinking, till I was almoſt afraid to look round the room, and my poor lady's countenance often came to my mind, ſuch as I had ſeen her when ſhe was dying, and, once or twice, I almoſt thought I ſaw her before me,—when ſuddenly I heard ſuch ſweet moſic! It ſeemed juſt at my window, and I ſhall never forget what I felt. I had not power to move from my chair, but then, when I thought it was my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes. I had often heard her ſing, in her life-time, and to be ſure ſhe had a very fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, when ſhe has ſat in her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute ſuch ſad ſongs, and ſinging ſo. O! it went to one's heart! I. have liſtened in the anti⯑chamber, for the hour together, and ſhe would ſometimes ſit playing, with the win⯑dow open, when it was ſummer time, till it was quite dark, and when I have gone [41] in, to ſhut it, ſhe has hardly ſeemed to know what hour it was. But, as I ſaid, madam, continued Dorothée, "when firſt I heard the muſic, that came juſt now, I thought it was my late lady's, and I have often thought ſo again, when I have heard it, as I have done at intervals, ever ſince. Some⯑times, many months have gone by, but ſtill it has returned."

"It is extraordinary," obſerved Emily, "that no perſon has yet diſcovered the mu⯑ſician."

"Aye, ma'amſelle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have been diſcover⯑ed long ago, but who could have courage to follow a ſpirit, and if they had, what good could it do?—for ſpirits, you know, ma'am, can take any ſhape, or no ſhape, and they will be here, one minute, and, the next perhaps, in a quite different place!"

"Pray reſume your ſtory of the Mar⯑chioneſs," ſaid Emily, "and acquaint me with the manner of her death."

"I will, ma'am," ſaid Dorothée, "but ſhall we leave the window?"

[42] "This cool air refreſhes me," replied Emily, "and I love to hear it creep along the woods, and to look upon this duſky landſcape. You was ſpeaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the muſic interrupted us."

"Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, be⯑came more and more gloomy; and my lady grew worſe and worſe, till, one night, ſhe was taken very ill, indeed. I was called up, and, when I came to her bed-ſide, I was ſhocked to ſee her countenance—it was ſo changed! She looked piteouſly up at me, and de⯑ſired I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come, and tell him ſhe had ſomething particular to ſay to him. At laſt, he came, and he did, to be ſure, ſeem very ſorry to ſee her, but he ſaid very little. My lady told him ſhe felt herſelf to be dying, and wiſhed to ſpeak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I ſhall never for⯑get his look as I went."

"When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about ſending for a doctor, for I fuppoſed he had forgot to do ſo, in his [43] grief; but my lady ſaid it was then too late; but my lord, ſo far from thinking ſo, ſeemed to think lightly of her diſorder—till ſhe was ſeized with ſuch terrible pains! O, I never ſhall forget her ſhriek! My lord then ſent off a man and horſe for the doc⯑tor, and walked about the room and all over the chateau, in the greateſt diſtreſs; and I ſtaid by my dear lady, and did what I could to eaſe her ſufferings. She had in⯑tervals of eaſe, and in one of theſe ſhe ſent for my lord again; when he came, I was going, but ſhe deſired I would not leave her. O! I ſhall never forget what a ſcene paſſed—I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was almoſt diſtracted, for my lady behaved with ſo much goodneſs, and took ſuch pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had ſuffered a ſuſpicion to enter his head, he muſt now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be ſure he did ſeem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her, and this affected her ſo much, that ſhe fainted away.

[44] "We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and threw himſelf on the floor, and there he ſtaid, and would hear no reaſon, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, ſhe enquired for him, but, afterwards, ſaid ſhe could not bear to ſee his grief, and deſired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma'am⯑ſelle, and ſhe went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of her diſorder was paſſed."

Dorothée pauſed, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for ſhe was much affected by the goodneſs of the late Marchioneſs, and by the meek patience, with which ſhe had ſuffered.

"When the doctor came," reſumed Do⯑rothée, "alas! he came too late; he ap⯑peared greatly ſhocked to ſee her, for ſoon after her death a frightful blackneſs ſpread all over her face. When he had ſent the attendants out of the room, he aſked me ſe⯑veral odd queſtions about the Marchioneſs, particularly concerning the manner, in which ſhe had been ſeized, and he often [45] ſhook his head at my anſwers, and ſeemed to mean more, than he choſe to ſay. But I underſtood him too well. However, I kept my remarks to myſelf, and only told them to my huſband, who bade me hold my tongue. Some of the other ſervants, however, ſuſpected what I did, and ſtrange reports were whiſpered about the neigh⯑bourhood, but nobody dared to make any ſtir about them. When my lord heard that my lady was dead, he ſhut himſelf up, and would ſee nobody but the doctor, who uſed to be with him alone, ſometimes for an hour together; and, after that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. When ſhe was buried in the church of the convent, at a little diſtance yonder, if the moon was up you might ſee the towers here, ma'amſelle, all my lord's vaſſals fol⯑lowed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye among them, for ſhe had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, the Marquis, I never ſaw any body ſo melan⯑choly as he was aſterwards, and ſometimes [46] he would be in ſuch fits of violence, that we almoſt thought he had loft his ſenſes. He did not ſtay long at the chateau, but joined his regiment, and, ſoon after, all the ſervants, except my huſband and I, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I never ſaw him after, for he would not re⯑turn to the chateau, though it is ſuch a fine place, and never finiſhed thoſe fine rooms he was building on the weſt ſide of it, and it has, in a manner, been ſhut up ever ſince, till my lord the Count came here."

"The death of the Marchioneſs appears extraordinary," ſaid Emily, who was anx⯑ious to know more than ſhe dared to aſk.

"Yes, madam," replied Dorothée, "it was extraordinary; I have told you all I ſaw, and you may eaſily gueſs what I think. I cannot ſay more, becauſe I would not ſpread reports, that might offend my lord the Count."

"You are very right," ſaid Emily;—"where did the Marquis die?"—" In the north of France, I believe, ma'amſelle," re⯑plied [47] Dorothée. "I was very glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a ſad deſolate place, theſe many years, and we heard ſuch ſtrange noiſes, ſometimes, after my lady's death, that, as I told you before, my huſband and I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have told you all this ſad hiſ⯑tory, and all my thoughts, and you have promiſed, you know, never to give the leaſt hint about it."—"I have," ſaid Emily, "and I will be faithful to my promiſe, Dorothée;—what you have told has inter⯑eſted me more than you can imagine. I only wiſh I could prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought ſo deſerving of the Marchioneſs."

Dorothée, however, ſteadily refuſed to do this, and then returned to the notice of Emily's likeneſs to the late Marchioneſs. "There is another picture of her," added ſhe," hanging in a room of the ſuite, which was ſhut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before ſhe was married, and is much [48] more like you than the miniature." When Emily expreſſed a ſtrong deſire to ſee this, Dorothée replied, that ſhe did not like to open thoſe rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the other day of ordering them to be opened; of which Dorothée ſeemed to conſider much, and then ſhe owned, that ſhe ſhould feel leſs, if ſhe went into them with Emily firſt, than otherwiſe, and at length promiſed to ſhew the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the nar⯑rative of the ſcenes, which had paſſed in thoſe apartments, to wiſh to viſit them at this hour, but ſhe requeſted that Dorothée would return on the following night, when they were not likely to be obſerved, and conduct her thither. Beſides her wiſh to examine the▪ portrait, ſhe felt a thrilling curioſity to ſee the chamber, in which the Marchioneſs▪ had died, and which Do⯑rothée had ſaid remained, with the bed and furniture, juſt as when the corpſe was [49] removed for interment. The ſolemn emo⯑tions, which the expectation of viewing ſuch a ſcene had awakened, were in uniſon with the preſent tone of her mind, depreſſed by ſevere diſappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this depreſ⯑ſion; but, perhaps, ſhe yielded too much to her melancholy inclination, and imprudent⯑ly lamented the misfortune, which no vir⯑tue of her own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort of reaſon could make her look unmoved upon the ſelf-de⯑gradation of him, whom ſhe had once eſ⯑teemed and loved.

Dorothée promiſed to return, on the fol⯑lowing night, with the keys of the cham⯑bers, and then wiſhed Emily good repoſe, and departed. Emily, however, continued at the window, muſing upon the melan⯑choly fate of the Marchioneſs and liſtening, in awful expectation, for a return of the muſic. But the ſtillneſs of the night re⯑mained long unbroken, except by the mur⯑muring ſounds of the woods, as they wav⯑ed [50] in the breeze, and then by the diſtant bell of the convent, linking one. She now withdrew from the window, and, as ſhe ſat at her bed-ſide, indulging melancholy reveries, which the lonelineſs of the hour aſſiſted, the ſtillneſs was ſuddenly interrupt⯑ed not by muſic, but by very uncommon ſounds, that ſeemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from one be⯑low. The terrible cataſtrophe, that had been related to her, together with the myſterious circumſtances, ſaid to have ſince occurred in the chateau, had ſo much ſhocked her ſpirits, that ſhe now ſunk, for a moment, under the weakneſs of ſuperſtition. The ſounds, however, did not return, and ſhe retired, to forget in ſleep the diſaſtrous ſto⯑ry ſhe had heard.

CHAP. IV.

ON the next night, about the ſame hour as before, Dorothée came to Emily's cham⯑ber, with the keys of that ſuite of rooms, which had been particularly appropriated to the late Marchioneſs. Theſe extended along the north ſide of the chateau, form⯑ing part of the old building; and, as Emily's room was in the ſouth, they had to paſs over a great extent of the caſtle, and by the chambers of ſeveral of the family, whoſe obſervations Dorothée was anxious to avoid, ſince it might excite enquiry and raiſe re⯑ports, ſuch as would diſpleaſe the Count. She, therefore, requeſted, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they ventured [52] forth, that they might be certain all the ſer⯑vants were gone to bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly ſtill, or Dorothée thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her ſpirits ſeem⯑ed to be greatly affected by the remem⯑brance of paſt events, and by the proſpect of entering again upon places, where theſe had occurred, and in which ſhe had not been for ſo many years. Emily too was affected, but her feelings had more of ſo⯑lemnity, and leſs of fear. From the ſi⯑lence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them, they, at length, rouſed themſelves, and left the chamber. Doro⯑thée, at firſt, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled ſo much with infirmity and alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to ſupport her feeble ſteps.

They had to deſcend the great ſtair-caſe, and, after paſſing over a wide extent of the chateau, to aſcend another, which led to the ſuite of rooms they were in queſt of. They ſtepped cautiouſly along the open corridor, [53] that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers of the Count, Coun⯑teſs, and the lady Blanch, opened, and, from thence, deſcending the chief ſtair-caſe, they croſſed the hall itſelf. Proceeding through the ſervants hall, where the dying embers of a wood fire ſtill glimmered on the hearth, and the ſupper table was ſurrounded by chairs, that obſtructed their paſſage, they came to the foot of the back ſtair-caſe. Old Dorothée here pauſed, and looked around; "Let us liſten," ſaid ſhe, "if any thing is ſtirring; Ma'amſelle, do you hear any voice?" "None," ſaid Emily, "there certainly is no perſon up in the chateau, beſides ourſelves."—"No, ma'amſelle," ſaid Dorothée "but I have never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know, my fears are not wonderful."—"What do you know?" ſaid Emily.—"O ma'am⯑ſelle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door on the left is the one we muſt open."

They proceeded, and, having reached the [54] top of the ſtair-caſe, Dorothée. applied the key to the lock. "Ah," ſaid ſhe, as ſhe endeavoured to turn it, "ſo many years have paſſed ſince this was opened, that I fear it will not move." Emily was more ſucceſs⯑ful, and they preſently entered a ſpacious and ancient chamber.

"Alas! exclaimed Dorothée, as ſhe en⯑tered, "the laſt time I paſſed through this door—I followed my poor lady's corpſe!"

Emily, ſtruck with the circumſtance, and affected by the duſky and ſolemn air of the apartment, remained ſilent, and they paſſed on through a long ſuite of rooms, till they came to one more ſpacious than the reſt, and rich in the remains of faded magni⯑ficence.

"Let us reſt here awhile, madam," ſaid Dorothée faintly, "we are going into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah, ma'amſelle! why did you perſuade me to come?"

Emily drew one of the maſſy arm-chairs, with which the apartment was furniſhed, [55] and begged Dorothée would ſit down, and try to compoſe her ſpirits.

"How the ſight of this place brings all that paſſed formerly to my mind!" ſaid Do⯑rothée; "it ſeems as if it was but yeſter⯑day ſince all that ſad affair happened!"

"Hark! what noiſe is that?" ſaid Emily.

Dorothée, half ſtarting from her chair, looked round the apartment, and they liſ⯑tened—but, every thing remaining ſtill, the old woman ſpoke again upon the ſubject of her ſorrow. "This ſaloon, ma'amſelle, was in my lady's time the fineſt apartment in the chateau, and it was fitted up accord⯑ing to her own taſte. All this grand furni⯑ture, but you can now hardly ſee what it is for the duſt, and our light is none of the bed—ah! how I have ſeen this room lighted up in my lady's time!—all this grand fur⯑niture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion of ſome in the Louvre there, ex⯑cept thoſe large glaſſes, and they came from ſome outlandiſh place, and that rich tapeſ⯑try. [56] How the colours are faded already!—ſince I ſaw it laſt!"

"I underſtood, that was twenty years ago," obſerved Emily.

"Thereabout, madam," ſaid Dorothée, "and well remembered, but all the time between then and now ſeems as nothing. That tapeſtry uſed to be greatly admired at, it tells the ſtories out of ſome famous book, or other, but I have forgot the name."

Emily now roſe to examine the figures it exhibited, and diſcovered, by verſes in the Provençal tongue, wrought underneath each ſcene, that it exhibited ſtories from ſome of the moſt celebrated ancient romances.

Dorothée's ſpirits being now more com⯑poſed, ſhe roſe, and unlocked the door that led into the late Marchioneſs's apartment, and Emily paſſed into a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and ſo ſpa⯑cious, that the lamp ſhe held up did not ſhew its extent; while Dorothée, when ſhe en⯑tered, had dropped into a chair, where, ſighing deeply, ſhe ſcarcely truſted herſelf with the view of a ſcene ſo affecting to her. [57] It was ſome time before Emily perceived, through the duſk, the bed on which the Marchioneſs was ſaid to have died; when, advancing to the upper end of the room, ſhe diſcovered the high canopied teſter of dark green damaſk, with the curtains de⯑ſcending to the floor in the faſhion of a tent, half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had been left twenty years before▪ and over the whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, of black velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily ſhuddered, as ſhe held the lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where ſhe almoſt expected to have ſeen a human face, and, ſuddenly remembering the horror ſhe had ſuffered upon diſcovering the dying Ma⯑dame Montoni in the turret-chamber of Udolpho, her ſpirits fainted, and ſhe was turning from the bed, when Dorothée, who had now reached it, exclaimed, "Holy Virgin! methinks I ſee my lady ſtretched upon that pall—as when laſt I ſaw hen!"

Emily, ſhocked by this exclamation, [58] looked involuntarily again within the cur⯑tains, but the blackneſs of the pall only ap⯑peared; while Dorothée was compelled to ſupport herſelf upon the ſide of the bed, and preſently tears brought her ſome relief.

"Ah!" ſaid ſhe, after ſhe had wept awhile, "it was here I ſat on that terrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her laſt words, and ſaw all her ſufferings—here ſhe died in my arms!"

"Do not indulge theſe painful recollec⯑tions," ſaid Emily, "let us go. Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect you."

"It hangs in the oriel," ſaid Dorothée riſing, and going towards a ſmall door near the bed's head, which ſhe opened, and Emily followed with the light, into the cloſet of the late Marchioneſs.

"Alas! there ſhe is, ma'amſelle," ſaid Dorothée, pointing to a portrait of a lady, "there is her very ſelf! juſt as ſhe looked when ſhe came firſt to the chateau. You [59] ſee, madam, ſhe was all blooming like you, then—and ſo ſoon to be cut off!"

While Dorothée ſpoke, Emily was at⯑tentively examining the picture, which bore a ſtrong reſemblance to the miniature, though the expreſſion of the countenance in each was ſomewhat different; but ſtill ſhe thought ſhe perceived ſomething of that penſive melancholy in the portrait, which ſo ſtrongly characteriſed the minia⯑ture.

"Pray, ma'amſelle, ſtand beſide the pic⯑ture, that I may look at you together," ſaid Dorothée, who, when the requeſt was complied with, exclaimed again at the reſem⯑blance. Emily alſo, as ſhe gazed upon it, thought that ſhe had ſomewhere ſeen a per⯑ſon very like it, though ſhe could not now recollect who this was.

In this cloſet were many memorials of the departed Marchioneſs; a robe and ſe⯑veral articles of her dreſs were ſcattered upon the chairs, as if they had juſt been thrown off. On the floor, were a pair of [60] black ſattin ſlippers, and, on the dreſſing⯑table, a pair of gloves and a long black veil, which, as Emily took it up to exa⯑mine, ſhe perceived was dropping to pieces with age.

"Ah!" ſaid Dorothée, obſerving the veil, "my lady's hand laid it there; it has never been moved ſince!"

Emily, ſhuddering, immediately laid it down again. "I well remember ſeeing her take it off," continued Dorothée, "it was on the night before her death, when ſhe had returned from a little walk I had per⯑ſuaded her to take in the gardens, and ſhe ſeemed, refreſhed by it. I told her how much better ſhe looked, and I remember what a languid ſmile ſhe gave me; but, alas! ſhe little thought, or I either, that ſhe was to die, that night."

Dorothée wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it ſuddenly over Emily▪ who ſhuddered to find it wrapped round her, deſcending even to her feet, and, as ſhe endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothée in⯑treated [61] that ſhe would keep it on for one moment. "I thought," added ſhe, "how like you would look to my dear miſtreſs in that veil;—may your life, ma'amſelle, be a happier one than hers!"

Emily, having diſengaged herſelf from the veil, laid it again on the dreſſing-table, and ſurveyed the cloſet, where every object, on which her eye fixed, ſeemed to ſpeak of the Marchioneſs. In a large oriel window of painted glaſs, ſtood a table, with a ſilver crucifix, and a prayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Do⯑rothée had mentioned concerning her cuſ⯑torn of playing on her lute in this window, before ſhe obſerved the lute itſelf, lying on a corner of the table, as if it had been care⯑leſsly placed there by the hand, that had ſo often awakened it.

"This is a ſad forlorn place!" ſaid Do⯑rothée, "for, when my dear lady died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and my lord never came into the rooms after, ſo they remain juſt as they [62] did when my lady was removed for inter⯑ment."

While Dorothée ſpoke, Emily was ſtill looking on the lute, which was a Spaniſh one, and remarkably large; and then, with a heſitating hand, ſhe took it up, and paſſed her fingers over the chords. They were out of tune, but uttered a deep and full ſound. Dorothée ſtarted at their well⯑known tones, and, ſeeing the lute in Emily's hand, ſaid, "This is the lute my lady Marchioneſs loved ſo! I remember when laſt she played upon it—it was on the night that ſhe died. I came as uſual to undreſs her, and, as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard the ſound of muſic from the oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was ſitting there, I ſtepped ſoftly to the door, which ſtood a little open, to liſten; for the muſic—though it was mournful—was ſo ſweet! There I ſaw her, with the lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the tears fell upon her cheeks, while ſhe ſung a veſper hymn, ſo ſoft, and ſo ſolemn! and her voice [63] trembled, as it were, and then ſhe would ſtop for a moment, and wipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had often liſtened to my lady, but ne⯑ver heard any thing ſo ſweet as this; it made me cry, almoſt, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there was the book open on the table beſide her—aye, and there it lies open ſtill! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amſelle," added Do⯑rothée, "this is a heart-breaking place!"

Having returned into the chamber, ſhe deſired to look once more upon the bed, when, as they came oppoſite to the open door, leading into the ſaloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it, thought ſhe ſaw ſomething glide along into the obſcurer part of the room. Her ſpirits had been much affected by the ſur⯑rounding ſcene, or it is probable this cir⯑cumſtance, whether real or imaginary, would not have affected her in the degree it did; but ſhe endeavoured to conceal her emo⯑tion from Dorothée, who, however, obſerv⯑ing [64] her countenance change, enquired if ſhe was ill.

"Let us go," ſaid Emily, faintly, "the air of theſe rooms is unwholeſome▪" but, when ſhe attempted to do ſo, conſidering that ſhe muſt paſs through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had ap⯑peared, this terror increaſed, and, too faint to ſupport herſelf, ſhe ſat down on the ſide of the bed.

Dorothée, believing that ſhe was only af⯑fected by a conſideration of the melancholy cataſtrophe, which had happened on this ſpot, endeavoured to cheer her; and then, as they ſat together on the bed, ſhe began to relate other particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting, that it might increaſe Emily's emotion, but becauſe they were particularly intereſting to herſelf. "A little before my lady's death," ſaid ſhe, "when the pains were gone off, ſhe called me to her, and, ſtretching out her hand to me, I ſat down juſt there—where the cur⯑tain falls upon the bed. How well I re⯑member [65] her look at the time—death was in it!—I can almoſt fancy I ſee her now.—There ſhe lay, ma'amſelle—her face was upon the pillow there! This black coun⯑terpane was not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and ſhe was laid out upon it."

Emily turned to look within the duſky curtains, as if ſhe could have ſeen the coun⯑tenance of which Dorothée ſpoke. The edge of the white pillow only appeared above the blackneſs of the pall, but, as her eyes wandered over the pall itſelf, ſhe fan⯑cied ſhe ſaw it move. Without ſpeaking, ſhe caught Dorothée's arm, who, ſurpriſed by the action, and by the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to the bed, where, in the next moment ſhe, too, ſaw the pall ſlowly lifted, and fall again.

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothée ſtood fixed and gazing upon the bed; and, at length, ſaid—"It is only the wind, that waves it, ma'amſelle; we have left all the [66] doors open: ſee how the air waves the lamp, too.—It is only the wind."

She had ſcarcely uttered theſe words, when the pall was more violently agitated than before; but Emily, ſomewhat aſhamed of her terrors, ſtepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had occaſioned her alarm; when, as ſhe gazed within the curtains, the pall moved again, and, in the next moment, the appa⯑rition of a human countenance roſe above it.

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as faſt as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doors of all the rooms, through which they paſſed. When they reached the ſtair-caſe, Dorothée threw open a cham⯑ber-door, where ſome of the female ſervants ſlept, and ſunk breathleſs on the bed; while Emily, deprived of all preſence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to con⯑ceal the occaſion of her terror from the aſtoniſhed ſervants; and, though Dorothée, [67] when ſhe could ſpeak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, and was joined by Emily, no remonſtrances could prevail with the ſervants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to paſs even the remainder of the night in a room ſo near to theſe terrific chambers.

Dorothée having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then began to talk over, with ſome degree of coolneſs, the ſtrange circumſtance, that had juſt occurred; and Emily would almoſt have doubted her own perceptions, had not thoſe of Doro⯑thée atteſted their truth. Having now men⯑tioned what ſhe had obſerved in the outer chamber, ſhe aſked the houſekeeper, whe⯑ther ſhe was certain no door had been left unfaſtened, by which a perſon might ſe⯑cretly have entered the apartments? Doro⯑thée replied, that ſhe had conſtantly kept the keys of the ſeveral doors in her own poſſeſſion; that, when ſhe had gone her rounds through the caſtle, as ſhe frequently did, to examine if all was ſafe, ſhe had tried theſe doors among the reſt, and had [68] always found them faſtened. It was, there⯑fore, impoſſible, ſhe added, that any perſon could have got admittance into the apart⯑ments; and, if they could—it was very im⯑probable they ſhould have choſe to ſleep in a place ſo cold and forlorn.

Emily obſerved, that their viſit to theſe chambers had, perhaps, been watched, and that ſome perſon, for a frolic, had followed them into the rooms, with a deſign to frighten them, and, while they were in the oriel, had taken the opportunity of conceal⯑ing himſelf in the bed.

Dorothée allowed, that this was poſſible, till ſhe recollected, that, on entering the apartments, ſhe had turned the key of the outer door, and this, which had been done to prevent their viſit being noticed by any of the family, who might happen to be up, muſt effectually have excluded every per⯑ſon, except themſelves, from the chambers; and ſhe now perſiſted in affirming, that the ghaſtly countenance ſhe had ſeen was no⯑thing [69] human, but ſome dreadful appa⯑rition.

Emily was very ſolemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be the appearance ſhe had witneſſed, whether human or ſuper⯑natural, the fate of the deceaſed Marchioneſs was a truth not to be doubted; and this un⯑accountable circumſtance, occurring in the very ſcene of her ſufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a ſuperſtitious awe, to which, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, ſhe might not have yielded, had ſhe been ignorant of the unhappy ſtory, re⯑lated by the houſekeeper. Her ſhe now ſo⯑lemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence of this night, and to make light of the ter⯑ror ſhe had already betrayed, that the Count might not be diſtreſſed by reports, which would certainly ſpread alarm and confuſion among his family. "Time," ſhe added, "may explain this myſterious affair; mean⯑while let us watch the event in ſilence."

Dorothée readily acquieſced; but ſhe now recollected that ſhe had left all the [70] doors of the north ſuite of rooms open, and, not having courage to return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after ſome ef⯑fort, ſo far conquered her own fears, that ſhe offered to accompany her to the foot of the back ſtair-caſe, and to wait there while Dorothée aſcended, whoſe reſolution being re-aſſured by this circumſtance, ſhe con⯑ſented to go, and they left Emily's apart⯑ment together.

No ſound diſturbed the ſtillneſs, as they paſſed along the halls and galleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back ſtair-caſe, Dorothée's reſolution failed again; having, however, pauſed a moment to liſten, and no ſound being heard above, ſhe aſcended, leaving Emily below, and, ſcarcely ſuffer⯑ing her eye to glance within the firſt cham⯑ber, ſhe faſtened the door, which ſhut up the whole ſuite of apartments, and returned to Emily.

As they ſtepped along the paſſage, lead⯑ing into the great hall, a ſound of lamenta⯑tion was heard, which ſeemed to come from [71] the hall itſelf, and they ſtopped in new alarm to liſten, when Emily preſently diſ⯑tinguiſhed the voice of Annette, whom ſhe found croſſing the hall, with another female ſervant, and ſo terrified by the report, which the other maids had ſpread, that, believing ſhe could be ſafe only where her lady was, ſhe was going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours to laugh, or to argue her out of theſe terrors, were equally vain, and, in compaſſion to her diſtreſs, ſhe con⯑ſented that ſhe ſhould remain in her room during the night.

CHAP. V.

EMILY's injunctions to Annette to be ſilent on the ſubject of her terror were ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night ſpread ſuch alarm among the ſervants, who now all affirmed, that they had frequently heard unaccountable noiſes in the chateau, that a report ſoon reached the Count of the north ſide of the caſtle being haunted. He treated this, at firſt, with ridicule, but, per⯑ceiving, that it was productive of ſerious evil, in the confuſion it occaſioned among his household, he forbade any perſon to re⯑peat it, on pain of puniſhment.

[73] The arrival of a party of his friends ſoon withdrew his thoughts entirely from this ſubject, and his ſervants had now little lei⯑ſure to brood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after ſupper, when they all aſſembled in their hall, and related ſtories of ghoſts, till they feared to took round the room; ſtarted, if the echo of a cloſing door mur⯑mured along the paſſage, and refuſed to go ſingly to any part of the caſtle.

On theſe occaſions Annette made a diſtin⯑guiſhed figure. When ſhe told not only of all the wonders ſhe had witneſſed, but of all that ſhe had imagined, in the caſtle of Udol⯑pho, with the ſtory of the ſtrange diſappear⯑ance of Signora Laurentini, ſhe made no tri⯑fling impreſſion on the mind of her attentive auditors. Her ſuſpicions, concerning Mon⯑toni, ſhe would alſo have freely diſcloſed, had not Ludovico, who was now in the ſer⯑vice of the Count, prudently checked her loquacity, whenever it pointed to that ſub⯑ject.

Among the viſitors at the chateau was [74] the Baron de Saint Foix, an old friend of the Count, and his ſon, the Chevalier St. Foix, a ſenſible and amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year ſeen the Lady Blanche, at Paris, had become her de⯑clared admirer. The friendſhip, which the Count had long entertained for his father, and the equality of their circumſtances made him ſecretly approve of the connection; but, thinking his daughter at this time too young to fix her choice for life, and wiſhing to prove the ſincerity and ſtrength of the Chevalier's attachment, he then rejected his ſuit, though without forbidding his future hope. This young man now came, with the Baron, his father, to claim the reward of a ſteady affec⯑tion, a claim, which the Count admitted and which Blanche did not reject.

While theſe viſitors were at the chateau, it became a ſcene of gaiety and ſplendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and fre⯑quented, in the fine evenings, as a ſupper⯑room, when the hour uſually concluded with a concert, at which the Count and Counteſs, [75] who were ſcientific performers, and the Che⯑valiers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche and Emily, whoſe voices and fine taſte compenſated for the want of more ſkil⯑ful execution, uſually aſſiſted. Several of the Count's ſervants performed on horns and other inſtruments, ſome of which, placed at a little diſtance among the woods, ſpoke, in ſweet reſponſe, to the harmony, that pro⯑ceeded from the pavilion.

At any other period, theſe parties would have been delightful to Emily; but her ſpi⯑rits were now oppreſſed with a melancholy, which ſhe perceived that no kind of what is called amuſement had power to diſſipate, and which the tender and, frequently, pa⯑thetic, melody of theſe concerts ſometimes increaſed to a very painful degree.

She was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on a promontory, overlooking the ſea. Their luxuriant ſhade was ſoothing to her penſive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded of the Mediterranean, with its winding ſhores and [76] paſſing ſails, tranquil beauty was united with grandeur. The paths were rude and frequently overgrown with vegetation, but their taſteful owner would ſuffer little to be done to them, and ſcarcely a ſingle branch to be lopped from the venerable trees. On an eminence, in one of the moſt ſequeſtered parts of theſe woods, was a ruſtic ſeat, formed of the trunk of a decayed oak, which had once been a noble tree, and of which many lofty branches ſtill flouriſhing united with beech and pines to over-canopy the ſpot. Beneath their deep umbrage, the eye paſſed over the tops of other woods, to the Mediterranean, and, to the left, through an opening, was ſeen a ruined watch-tower, ſtanding on a point of rock, near the ſea, and riſing from among the tufted foliage.

Hither Emily often came alone in the ſilence of evening, and, ſoothed by the ſcenery and by the faint murmur, that roſe from the waves, would ſit, till darkneſs obliged her to return to the chateau. Fre⯑quently, alſo, ſhe viſited the watch-tower, [77] which commanded the entire proſpect, and, when ſhe leaned againſt its broken walls, and thought of Valancourt, ſhe not once imagined, what was ſo true, that this tower had been almoſt as frequently his reſort, as her own, ſince his eſtrangement from the neighbouring chateau.

One evening, ſhe lingered here to a late hour. She had ſat on the ſteps of the build⯑ing, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual effect of evening over the exten⯑ſive proſpect, till the gray waters of the Mediterranean and the maſſy woods were almoſt the only features of the ſcene, that re⯑mained viſible; when, as ſhe gazed alter⯑nately on theſe, and on the mild blue of the heavens, where the firſt pale ſtar of evening appeared, ſhe perſonified the hour in the following lines:—

The moon was now riſing out of the ſea. She watched its gradual progreſs, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, the ſparkling oars, the ſail faint⯑ly ſilvered, and the wood-tops and the bat⯑tlements of the watch-tower, at whoſe foot ſhe was ſitting, juſt tinted with the rays. Emily's ſpirits were in harmony with this ſcene. As ſhe ſat meditating, ſounds ſtole by her on the air, which ſhe immediately knew to be the muſic and the voice ſhe had formerly heard at midnight, and the [80] emotion of awe, which ſhe felt, was not unmixed with terror, when ſhe conſidered her remote and lonely ſituation. The ſounds drew nearer. She would have riſen to leave the place, but they ſeemed to come from the way ſhe muſt have taken towards the chateau, and ſhe awaited the event in trembling expectation. The ſounds con⯑tinued to approach, for ſome time, and then ceaſed. Emily ſat liſtening, gazing and unable to move, when ſhe ſaw a figure emerge from the ſhade of the woods and paſs along the bank, at ſome little diſtance before her. It went ſwiftly, and her ſpirits were ſo overcome with awe, that, though ſhe ſaw, ſhe did not much obſerve it.

Having left the ſpot, with a reſolution never again to viſit it alone, at ſo late an hour, ſhe began to approach the chateau, when ſhe heard voices calling her from the part of the wood, which was neareſt to it. They were the ſhouts of the Count's ſer⯑vants, who were ſent to ſearch for her; and when ſhe entered the ſupper-room, where [81] he ſat with Henri and Blanche, he gently reproached her with a look, which ſhe bluſhed to have deſerved.

This little occurrence deeply impreſſed her mind, and, when ſhe withdrew to her own room, it recalled ſo forcibly the cir⯑cumſtances ſhe had witneſſed, a few nights before, that ſhe had ſcarcely courage to re⯑main alone. She watched to a late hour, when, no ſound having renewed her fears, ſhe, at length, ſunk to repoſe. But this was of ſhort continuance, for ſhe was dis⯑turbed by a loud and unuſual noiſe, that ſeemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened. Groans were diſtinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight fell againſt her door, with a violence, that threatened to burſt it open. She called loudly to know who was there, but received no anſwer, though, at inter⯑vals, ſhe ſtill thought ſhe heard ſomething like a low moaning. Fear deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, ſhe heard [82] footſteps in a remote part of the gallery, and, as they approached, ſhe called more loudly than before, till the ſteps pauſed at her door. She then diſtinguiſhed the voices of ſeveral of the ſervants, who ſeemed too much engaged by ſome circumſtance with⯑out, to attend to her calls; but, Annette ſoon after entering the room for water, Emily underſtood, that one of the maids had fainted, whom she immediately deſired them to bring into her room, where ſhe aſ⯑ſiſted to reſtore her. When this girl had recovered her ſpeech, ſhe affirmed, that, as ſhe was paſſing up the back ſtair-caſe, in the way to her chamber, ſhe had ſeen an apparition on the ſecond landing-place; ſhe held the lamp low, ſhe ſaid, that ſhe might pick her way, ſeveral of the ſtairs being infirm and even decayed, and it was upon raiſing her eyes, that ſhe ſaw this ap⯑pearance. It ſtood for a moment in the corner of the landing-place, which ſhe was approaching, and then, gliding up the [83] ſtairs, vaniſhed at the door of the apart⯑ment, that had been lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow ſound.

"Then the devil has got a key to that apartment," ſaid Dorothée, "for it could be nobody but he; I locked the door my⯑ſelf!"

The girl, ſpringing down the ſtairs and paſſing up the great ſtair-caſe, had run, with a faint ſcream, till ſhe reached the gal⯑lery, where ſhe fell, groaning, at Emily's door.

Gently chiding her for the alarm ſhe had occaſioned, Emily tried to make her aſham⯑ed of her fears; but the girl perſiſted in ſay⯑ing, that ſhe had ſeen an apparition, till ſhe went to her own room, whither ſhe was ac⯑companied by all the ſervants preſent, ex⯑cept Dorothée, who, at Emily's requeſt, re⯑mained with her during the night. Emily was perplexed, and Dorothée was terrified, and mentioned many occurrences of former times, which had long ſince confirmed her ſuperſtitions; among theſe, according to [84] her belief, ſhe had once witneſſed an appear⯑ance, like that juſt deſcribed, and on the very ſame ſpot, and it was the remembrance of it, that had made her pauſe, when ſhe was go⯑ing to aſcend the ſtairs with Emily, and which had increaſed her reluctance to open the north apartments. Whatever might be Emily's opinions, ſhe did not diſcloſe them, but liſtened attentively to all that Dorothée communicated, which occaſioned her much thought and perplexity.

From this night the terror of the ſer⯑vants increaſed to ſuch an exceſs, that ſe⯑veral of them determined to leave the cha⯑teau, and requeſted their diſcharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith in the ſub⯑ject of their alarm, thought proper to diſ⯑ſemble it, and, anxious to avoid the incon⯑venience that threatened him, employed ri⯑dicule and then argument to convince them they had nothing to apprehend from ſuper⯑natural agency. But fear had rendered their minds inacceſſible to reaſon; and it was now, that Ludovico proved at once [85] his courage and his gratitude for the kind⯑neſs he had received from the Count, by offering to watch, during a night, in the ſuite of rooms, reputed to be haunted. He feared, he ſaid, no ſpirits, and, if any thing of human form appeared—he would prove that he dreaded that as little.

The Count pauſed upon the offer, while the ſervants, who heard it, looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and An⯑nette, terrified for the ſafety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to diſſuade him from his purpoſe.

"You are a bold fellow," ſaid the Count, ſmiling, "Think well of what you are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it. However, if you per⯑ſevere in your reſolution, I will accept your offer, and your intrepidity ſhall not go un⯑rewarded."

"I deſire no reward, your Excellenza," replied Ludovico, "but your approbation. Your Excellenza has been ſufficiently good to me already; but I wiſh to have arms, [86] that I may be equal to my enemy, if he ſhould appear."

"Your ſword cannot defend you againſt a ghoſt," replied the Count, throwing a glance of irony upon the other ſervants, "neither can bars, or bolts; for a ſpirit, you know, can glide through a key-hole, as eaſily as through a door."

"Give me a ſword, my lord Count," ſaid Ludovico, "and I will lay all the ſpirits, that ſhall attack me, in the red ſea."

"Well," ſaid the Count, "you ſhall have a ſword, and good cheer, too; and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to remain another night in the chateau, ſince your boldneſs will certainly, for this night, at leaſt, con⯑fine all the malice of the ſpectre to your⯑ſelf."

Curioſity now ſtruggled with fear in the minds of ſeveral of his fellow ſervants, and, at length, they reſolved to await the event of Ludovico's raſhneſs.

[87] Emily was ſurpriſed and concerned, when ſhe heard of his intention, and was frequent⯑ly inclined to mention what ſhe had wit⯑neſſed in the north apartments to the Count, for ſhe could not entirely diveſt herſelf of fears for Ludovico's ſafety, though her reaſon repreſented theſe to be abſurd. The neceſſity, however, of concealing the ſecret, with which Dorothée had entruſted her, and which muſt have been mentioned, with the late occurrence, in excuſe for her hav⯑ing ſo privately viſited the north apart⯑ments, kept her entirely ſilent on the ſub⯑ject of her apprehenſion; and ſhe tried on⯑ly to ſooth Annette, who held, that Ludo⯑vico was certainly to be deſtroyed; and who was much leſs affected by Emily's conſo⯑latory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothée, who often, as ſhe exclaimed Lu⯑dovico, ſighed, and threw up her eyes to heaven.

CHAP. VI.

THE Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and prepared for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothée, remembering what ſhe had lately witneſſed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the other ſervants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained ſhut up till the time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour, for which the whole houſehold waited with impatience.

After ſupper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his cloſet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leaving which, his Lord delivered to him a ſword.

[89] "It has ſeen ſervice in mortal quarrels," ſaid the Count, jocoſely, "you will uſe it honourably, no doubt, in a ſpiritual one. To-morrow, let me hear that there is not one ghoſt remaining in the chateau."

Ludovico received it with a reſpectful bow. "You ſhall be obeyed, my Lord," ſaid he; "I will engage, that no ſpectre ſhall diſturb the peace of the chateau after this night."

They now returned to the ſupper-room, where the Count's gueſts awaited to accom⯑pany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and Dorothée, being ſum⯑moned for the keys, delivered them to Lu⯑dovico, who then led the way, followed by moſt of the inhabitants of the chateau. Having reached the back ſtair-caſe, ſeveral of the ſervants ſhrunk back, and refuſed to go further, but the reſt followed him to the top of the ſtair-caſe, where a broad landing⯑place allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with as [90] much eager curioſity as if he had been per⯑forming ſome magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccuſtomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothée, who had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whoſe hand the door opened ſlowly, and, her eye glancing within the duſky chamber, ſhe uttered a ſudden ſhriek, and retreated. At this ſignal of alarm, the greater part of the crowd hurried down the ſtairs, and the Count, Henri and Ludovico were left alone to purſue the enquiry, who inſtantly ruſhed into the apartment, Ludo⯑vico with a drawn ſword, which he had juſt time to draw from the ſcabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, and Henri car⯑rying a baſket, containing proviſion for the courageous adventurer.

Having looked haſtily round the firſt room, where nothing appeared to juſtify alarm, they paſſed on to the ſecond; and, here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third in a more tempered ſtep. The Count had now leiſure to ſmile at the diſ⯑compoſure, [91] into which he had been ſur⯑priſed, and to aſk Ludovico in which room he deſigned to paſs the night.

"There are ſeveral chambers beyond theſe, your Excellenza," ſaid Ludovico, pointing to a door, "and in one of them is a bed, they ſay. I will paſs the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie down."

"Good;" ſaid the Count, "let us go on. You ſee theſe rooms ſhew nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been ſo much engaged ſince I came to the cha⯑teau, that I have not looked into them till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the houſekeeper, to-morrow, to throw open theſe windows. The damaſk hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have them taken down, and this antique furniture removed."

"Dear ſir!" ſaid Henri, "here is an arm-chair ſo maſſy with gilding, that it re⯑ſembles one of the ſtate chairs at the Lou⯑vre, more than any thing elſe."

"Yes," ſaid the Count, ſtopping a mo⯑ment [92] to ſurvey it, "there is a hiſtory be⯑longing to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.—Let us paſs on. This ſuite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is many years ſince I was in them. But where is the bed-room you ſpeak of, Ludo⯑vico?—theſe are only anti-chambers to the great drawing-room. I remember them in their ſplendour!"

"The bed, my Lord," replied Ludovico, "they told me, was in a room that opens be⯑yond the ſaloon, and terminates the ſuite."

"O, here is the ſaloon," ſaid the Count, as they entered the ſpacious apartment, in which Emily and Dorothée had reſted. He here ſtood for a moment, ſurveying the re⯑liques of faded grandeur, which it exhi⯑bited—the ſumptuous tapeſtry—the long and low ſophas of velvet, with frames hea⯑vily carved and gilded—the floor inlaid with ſmall ſquares of fine marble, and co⯑vered in the centre with a piece of very rich tapeſtry-work—the caſements of paint⯑ed glaſs; and the large Venetian mirrors, of [93] a ſize and quality, ſuch as at that period France could not make, which reflected, on every ſide, the ſpacious apartment. Theſe had formerly alſo reflected a gay and bril⯑liant ſcene, for this had been the ſtate-room of the chateau, and here the Marchioneſs had held the aſſemblies, that made part of the feſtivities of her nuptials. If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vaniſhed groups, many of them vaniſhed even from the earth! that once had paſſed over theſe poliſhed mirrors, what a varied and con⯑traſted picture would they have exhibited with the preſent! Now, inſtead of a blaze of lights, and a ſplendid and buſy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one glim⯑mering lamp, which the Count held up, and which ſcarcely ſerved to ſhew the three forlorn figures, that ſtood ſurveying the room, and the ſpacious and duſky walls around them.

"Ah!" ſaid the Count to Henri, awak⯑ing from his deep reverie, "how the ſcene is changed ſince laſt I ſaw it! I was a [94] young man, then, and the Marchioneſs was alive and in her bloom; many other per⯑ſons were here, too, who are now no more! There ſtood the orcheſtra; here we tripped in many a ſprightly maze—the walls echo⯑ing to the dance! Now, they reſound only one feeble voice—and even that will, ere long, be heard no more! My ſon, remem⯑ber, that I was once as young as yourſelf, and that you muſt paſs away like thoſe, who have preceded you—like thoſe, who, as they ſung and danced in this once gay apart⯑ment, forgot, that years are made up of moments, and that every ſtep they took carried them nearer to their graves. But ſuch reflections are uſeleſs, I had almoſt ſaid criminal, unleſs they teach us to prepare for eternity, ſince, otherwiſe, they cloud our preſent happineſs, without guiding us to a future one. But enough of this; let us go on."

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as he entered, was ſtruck with the funereal appearance, [95] which the dark arras gave to it. He ap⯑proached the bed, with an emotion of ſo⯑lemnity, and, perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, pauſed; "What can this mean?" ſaid he, as he gazed upon it.

"I have heard, my Lord," ſaid Ludovico, as he ſtood at the feet, looking within the canopied curtains, "that the Lady Mar⯑chioneſs de Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till ſhe was removed to be buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall."

The Count made no reply, but ſtood for a few moments engaged in thought, and evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he aſked him with a ſeri⯑ous air, whether he thought his courage would ſupport him through the night? "If you doubt this," added the Count, "do not be aſhamed to own it; I will releaſe you from your engagement, without expoſing you to the triumphs of your fellow ſer⯑vants."

[96] Ludovico pauſed; pride, and ſomething very like fear, ſeemed ſtruggling in his breaſt; pride, however, was victorious;—he bluſhed, and his heſitation ceaſed.

"No, my Lord," ſaid he, "I will go through with what I have begun; and I am grateful for your conſideration. On that hearth I will make a fire, and, with the good cheer in this baſket, I doubt not I ſhall do well."

"Be it ſo," ſaid the Count; "but how will you beguile the tediouſneſs of the night, if you do not ſleep?"

"When I am weary, my Lord," replied Ludovico, "I ſhall not fear to ſleep; in the meanwhile I have a book, that will en⯑tertain me."

"Well," ſaid the Count, "I hope no⯑thing will diſturb you; but if you ſhould be ſeriouſly alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have too much confidence in your good ſenſe and courage, to believe you will be alarmed on ſlight grounds; or ſuffer the gloom of this chamber, or its remote [97] ſituation, to overcome you with ideal ter⯑rors. To-morrow, I ſhall have to thank you for an important ſervice; theſe rooms ſhall then be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error. Good night, Ludovico; let me ſee you early in the morning, and, remember what I lately ſaid to you."

"I will, my Lord; good night to your Excellenza; let me attend you with the light."

He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door; on the land⯑ing-place ſtood a lamp, which one of the affrighted ſervants had left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night, who, having reſpectfully returned the wiſh, cloſed the door upon them, and faſtened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined the rooms, through which he paſſed, with more mi⯑nuteneſs than he had done before, for he apprehended, that ſome perſon might have concealed himſelf in them, for the purpoſe [98] of frightening him. No one, however, but himſelf, was in theſe chambers, and, leaving open the doors, through which he paſſed, he came again to the great drawing⯑room, whoſe ſpaciouſneſs and ſilent gloom ſomewhat awed him. For a moment he ſtood, looking back through the long ſuite of rooms he had quitted, and, as he turned, perceiving a light and his own figure, re⯑flected in one of the large mirrors, he ſtart⯑ed. Other objects too were ſeen obſcurely on its dark ſurface, but he pauſed not to examine them, and returned haſtily into the bed-room, as he ſurveyed which, he obſerved the door of the oriel, and opened it. All within was ſtill. On looking round, his eye was arreſted by the por⯑trait of the deceaſed Marchioneſs, upon which he gazed, for a conſiderable time, with great attention and ſome ſurpriſe; and then, having examined the cloſet, he returned into the bed-room, where he kin⯑dled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which reviſed his ſpirits, which had begun to yield [99] to the gloom and ſilence of the place, for guſts of wind alone broke at intervals this ſilence. He now drew a ſmall table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and ſome cold proviſion out of his baſket, and regaled himſelf. When he had finiſhed his repaſt, he laid his ſword upon the table, and, not feeling diſpoſed to ſleep, drew from his poc⯑ket the book he had ſpoken of.—It was a volume of old Provençal tales. Having ſtirred the fire into a brighter blaze, trim⯑med his lamp, and drawn his chair upon the hearth, he began to read, and his atten⯑tion was ſoon wholly occupied by the ſcenes, which the page diſcloſed.

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the ſupper-room, whither thoſe of the party, who had attended him to the north apart⯑ment, had retreated, upon hearing Doro⯑thée's ſcream, and who were now earneſt in their enquiries concerning thoſe chambers. The Count rallied his gueſts on their pre⯑cipitate retreat, and on the ſuperſtitious in⯑clination which had occaſioned it, and his [100] led to the queſtion, Whether the ſpirit, af⯑ter it has quitted the body, is ever permit⯑ted to reviſit the earth; and if it is, whether it was poſſible for ſpirits to become viſible to the ſenſe. The Baron was of opinion, that the firſt was probable, and the laſt was poſſible, and he endeavoured to juſtify this opinion by reſpectable authorities, both an⯑cient and modern, which he quoted. The Count, however, was decidedly againſt him, and a long converſation enſued, in which the uſual arguments on theſe ſubjects were on both ſides brought forward with ſkill, and diſcuſſed with candour, but without convert⯑ing either party to the opinion of his oppo⯑nent. The effect of their converſation on their auditors was various. Though the Count had much the ſuperiority of the Baron in point of argument, he had conſiderably fewer adherents; for that love, ſo natural to the human mind, of whatever is able to diſ⯑tend its faculties with wonder and aſtoniſh⯑ment, attached the majority of the company to the ſide of the Baron; and, though many [101] of the Count's propoſitions were unanſwer⯑able, his opponents were inclined to believe this the conſequence of their own want of knowledge, on ſo abſtracted a ſubject, rather than that arguments did not exiſt, which were forcible enough to conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father's glance called a bluſh upon her countenance, and ſhe then endea⯑voured to forget the ſuperſtitious tales ſhe had been told in her convent. Meanwhile, Emily had been liſtening with deep atten⯑tion to the diſcuſſion of what was to her a very intereſting queſtion, and, remembering the appearance ſhe had witneſſed in the apartment of the late Marchioneſs, ſhe was frequently chilled with awe. Several times ſhe was on the point of mentioning what ſhe had ſeen, but the fear of giving pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, re⯑ſtrained her; and, awaiting in anxious expec⯑tation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, ſhe determined that her future ſilence ſhould depend upon it.

When the party had ſeparated for the [102] night, and the Count retired to his dreſſing⯑room, the remembrance of the deſolate ſcenes he had lately witneſſed in his own manſion deeply affected him, but at length he was arouſed from his reverie and his ſilence. "What muſic is that I hear?"—ſaid he ſuddenly to his valet, "Who plays at this late hour?"

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to liſten, and then added, "That is no common muſician; he touches the in⯑ſtrument with a delicate hand; who is it, Pierre?"

"My Lord!" ſaid the man, heſitatingly.

"Who plays that inſtrument?" repeated the Count.

"Does not your lordſhip know, then?" ſaid the valet.

"What mean you?" ſaid the Count, ſomewhat ſternly.

"Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing," rejoined the man ſubmiſſively—"Only—that muſic—goes about the houſe at mid⯑night [103] often, and I thought your lordſhip might have heard it before."

"Muſic goes about the houſe at mid⯑night! Poor fellow!—does nobody dance to the muſic, too?"

"It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the ſounds come from the woods, they ſay, though they ſeem ſo near;—but then a ſpirit can do any thing!"

"Ah, poor fellow!" ſaid the Count, "I perceive you are as ſilly as the reſt of them; to-morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous error. But hark!—what voice is that?"

"O my Lord! that is the voice we of⯑ten hear with the muſic."

"Often!" ſaid the Count, "How often, pray? It is a very fine one."

"Why, my Lord, I myſelf have not heard it more than two or three times, but there are thoſe who have lived here longer, that have heard it often enoush."

"What a ſwell was that!" exclaimed the Count, as he ſtill liſtened, "And now, [104] what a dying cadence! This is ſurely ſome⯑thing more than mortal!"

"That is what they ſay, my Lord," ſaid the valet; "they ſay it is nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might ſay my thoughts"—

"Peace!" ſaid the Count, and he liſtened till the ſtrain died away.

"This is ſtrange!" ſaid he, as he turned from the window, "Cloſe the caſements, Pierre."

Pierre obeyed, and the Count ſoon after diſmiſſed him, but did not ſo ſoon loſe the remembrance of the muſic, which long vi⯑brated in his fancy in tones of melting ſweet⯑neſs, while ſurpriſe and perplexity engaged his thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the faint echo of a cloſing door, as the family retired to reſt, and then the hall clock, at a great diſtance, ſtrike twelve. "It is midnight," ſaid he, and he looked ſuſpiciouſly round the ſpacious chamber. The fire on the [105] hearth was now nearly expiring, for his at⯑tention having been engaged by the book before him, he had forgotten every thing beſides; but he ſoon added freſh wood, not becauſe he was cold, though the night was ſtormy, but becauſe he was cheerleſs; and, having again trimmed his lamp, he poured out a glaſs of wine, drew his chair nearer to the crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled mournfully at the caſements, endeavoured to abſtract his mind from the melancholy, that was ſtealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lent to him by Dorothée, who had for⯑merly picked it up in anobſcure corner of the Marquis's library, and who, having opened it and perceived ſome of the marvels it re⯑lated, had carefully preſerved it for her own entertainment, its condition giving her ſome excuſe for detaining it from its proper ſtation. The damp corner into which it had fallen, had cauſed the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be ſo diſ⯑coloured with ſpots, that it was not without [106] difficulty the letters could be traced. The fictions of the Provençal writers, whether drawn from the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, or recounting the chivalric exploits performed by the cruſaders, whom the Troubadours accom⯑panied to the eaſt, were generally ſplendid and always marvellous, both in ſcenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that Do⯑rothée and Ludovico ſhould be faſcinated by inventions, which had captivated the careleſs imagination in every rank of ſociety, in a former age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico, were of ſimple ſtructure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificent machinery and heroic man⯑ners, which uſually characterized the fables of the twelfth century, and of this deſcrip⯑tion was the one he now happened to open, which, in its original ſtyle, was of great length, but which may be thus ſhortly re⯑lated. The reader will perceive, that it is ſtrongly tinctured with the ſuperſtition of the times.

Ludovico, having finiſhed this ſtory, laid aſide the book, for he felt drowſy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking another glaſs of wine, he repoſed himſelf in the arm chair on the hearth. In his dream he [120] ſtill beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once or twice, ſtarted from imperfect ſlumbers, imagining he ſaw a man's face, looking over the high back of his arm-chair. This idea had ſo ſtrongly-impreſſed him, that, when he raiſed his eyes, he almoſt expected to meet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his ſeat and looked behind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no perſon was there.

Thus cloſed the hour.

CHAP. VII.

THE Count, who had ſlept little during the night, roſe early, and, anxious to ſpeak with Ludovico, went to the north apart⯑ment; but, the outer door having been faſt⯑ened, on the preceding night, he was ob⯑liged to knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice was heard; but, conſidering the diſtance of this door from the bed-room, and that Ludo⯑vico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep ſleep, the Count was not ſurpriſed on receiving no anſwer, and, leav⯑ing the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a gray autumnal morning. The [122] ſun, riſing over Provence, gave only a feeble light, as his rays ſtruggled through the va⯑pours that aſcended from the ſea, and ſloated heavily over the wood-tops, which were now varied with many a mellow tint of autumn. The ſtorm was paſſed, but the waves were yet violently agitated, and their courſe was traced by long lines of foam, while not a breeze ſluttered in the ſails of the veſſels, near the ſhore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The ſtill gloom of the hour was pleaſing to the Count, and he pur⯑ſued his way through the woods, ſunk in deep thought.

Emily alſo roſe at an early hour, and took her cuſtomary walk along the brow of the promontory, that overhung the Me⯑diterranean. Her mind was now not oc⯑cupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and Valancourt was the ſubject of her mournful thoughts; whom ſhe had not yet taught herſelf to conſider with indiffer⯑ence, though her judgment conſtantly re⯑proached her for the affection, that lingered [123] in her heart, after her eſteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his parting look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a laſt farewel; and, ſome accidental aſſociations now recall⯑ing theſe circumſtances to her fancy, with peculiar energy, ſhe ſhed bitter tears to the recollection.

Having reached the watch-tower, ſhe ſeated herſelf on the broken ſteps, and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour, as they came rolling to⯑wards the ſhore, and threw up their light ſpray round the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obſcuring miſts, that came in wreaths up the cliffſs, gave a ſolemnity to the ſcene, which was in harmony with the temper of her mind, and ſhe ſat, given up to the remembrance of paſt times, till this became too painful, and ſhe abruptly quitted the place. On paſſing the little gate of the watch-tower, ſhe obſerved let⯑ters, engraved on the ſtone poſtern, which ſhe pauſed to examine, and, though they [124] appeared to have been rudely cut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length, recognizing the hand-writ⯑ing of Valancourt, ſhe read, with trembling anxiety, the following lines, entitled

From theſe lines it appeared, that Va⯑lancourt had viſited the tower; that he had probably been here on the preceding night, [125] for it was ſuch an one as they deſcribed, and that he had left the building very late⯑ly, ſince it had not long been light, and without light it was impoſſible theſe letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he might be yet in the gar⯑dens.

As theſe reflections paſſed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called up a variety of contending emotions, that almoſt over⯑came her ſpirits; but her firſt impulſe was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the tower, ſhe returned, with haſty ſteps, towards the chateau. As ſhe paſſed along, ſhe remembered the muſic ſhe had lately heard near the tower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment of agi⯑tation, ſhe was inclined to believe, that ſhe had then heard and ſeen Valancourt; but other recollections ſoon convinced her of her error. On turning into a thicker part of the woods, ſhe perceived a perſon, walking ſlowly in the gloom at ſome little diſtance, and, her mind engaged by the [126] idea of him, ſhe ſtarted and pauſed, ima⯑gining this to be Valancourt. The perſon advanced with quicker ſteps, and, before ſhe could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he ſpoke, and ſhe then knew the voice of the Count, who expreſſed ſome ſurpriſe, on finding her walking at ſo early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her on her love of ſolitude. But he ſoon perceived this to be more a ſubject of con⯑cern than of light laughter, and, changing his manner, affectionately expoſtulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing regret; who, though ſhe acknowledged the juſtneſs of all he ſaid, could not reſtrain her tears, while ſhe did ſo, and he preſently quitted the topic. Expreſſing ſurpriſe at not hav⯑ing yet heard from his friend, the Advo⯑cate at Avignon, in anſwer to the queſtions propoſed to him, respecting the eſtates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with friend⯑ly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of eſtabliſhing her claim to them; while ſhe felt, that the eſtates could now [127] contribute little to the happineſs of a life, in which Valancourt had no longer an in⯑tereſt.

When they returned to the chateau, Emily retired to her apartment, and Count De Villefort to the door of the north cham⯑bers. This was ſtill faſtened, but, being now determined to arouſe Ludovico, he renewed his calls more loudly than before, after which a total ſilence enſued, and the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffec⯑tual, at length began to fear, that ſome ac⯑cident had befallen Ludovico, whom ter⯑ror of an imaginary being might have de⯑prived of his ſenſes. He, therefore, left the door with an intention of ſummon⯑ing his ſervants to force it open, ſome of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the chateau.

To the Count's enquiries, whether they had ſeen or heard Ludovico, they replied in affright, that not one of them had ven⯑tured on the north ſide of the chateau, ſince the preceding night.

[128] "He ſleeps ſoundly then," ſaid the Count, "and is at ſuch a diſtance from the outer door, which is faſtened, that to gain admittance to the chambers it will be neceſ⯑ſary to force it. Bring an inſtrument, and follow me."

The ſervants ſtood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all the houſehold were aſſembled, that the Count's orders were obeyed. In the mean time Dorothée was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery, leading from the great ſtair-caſe into the laſt anti-room of the ſaloon, and, this being much nearer to the bed-cham⯑ber, it appeared probable, that Ludovico might be eaſily awakened by an attempt to open it. Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now, ſeriouſly intereſted for Lu⯑dovico, he was himſelf going to ſtrike upon the door with the inſtrument, when he ob⯑ſerved its ſingular beauty, and with-held the blow. It appeared, on the firſt glance, [129] to be of ebony, ſo dark and cloſe was its grain and ſo high its poliſh; but it proved to be only of larch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its foreſts of larch. The beauty of its poliſhed hue and of its delicate carvings determined the Count to ſpare this door, and he returned to that leading from the back ſtair-caſe, which being, at length, forced, he entered the firſt anti-room, followed by Henri and a few of the moſt courageous of his ſervants, the reſt awaiting the event of the enquiry on the ſtairs and landing-place.

All was ſilent in the chambers, through which the Count paſſed, and, having reach⯑ed the ſaloon, he called loudly upon Ludo⯑vico; after which, ſtill receiving no anſwer, he threw open the door of the bed-room, and entered.

The profound ſtillneſs within confirmed his apprehenſions for Ludovico, for not even the breathings of a perſon in ſleep were heard; and his uncertainty was not ſoon ter⯑minated, [130] ſince, the ſhutters being all cloſed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be diſtinguiſhed in it.

The Count bade a ſervant open them, who, as he croſſed the room to do ſo, ſtumbled over ſomething, and fell to the floor, when his cry occaſioned ſuch panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured thus far, that they inſtantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left to finish the adventure.

Henri then ſprung acroſs the room, and, opening a window-ſhutter, they perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in which Ludovico had been ſitting;—for he ſat there no longer, nor could any where be ſeen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the apartment. The Count, ſeriouſly alarmed, now opened other ſhutters, that he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet ap⯑pearing, he ſtood for a moment, ſuſpended in aſtoniſhment and ſcarcely truſting his ſenſes, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he [131] advanced, to examine whether he was there aſleep. No perſon, however, was in it, and he proceeded to the oriel, where every thing remained as on the preceding night, but Ludovico was no where to be found.

The Count now checked his amazement, conſidering, that Ludovico might have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, which their lonely deſolation and the recollected reports, concerning them, had inſpired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturally have ſought ſociety, and his fellow ſervants had all declared they had not ſeen him; the door of the outer room alſo had been found faſtened, with the key on the inſide; it was impoſſible, therefore, for him to have paſſed through that, and all the outer doors of this ſuite were found, on examina⯑tion, to be bolted and locked, with the keys alſo within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad had eſcaped through the caſements, next exa⯑mined them, but ſuch as opened wide [132] enough to admit the body of a man were found to be carefully ſecured either by iron bars, or by ſhutters, and no veſtige appear⯑ed of any perſon having attempted to paſs them; neither was it probable, that Ludo⯑vico would have incurred the riſque of breaking his neck, by leaping from a win⯑dow, when he might have walked ſafely through a door.

The Count's amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more to ex⯑amine the bed-room, where was no appear⯑ance of diſorder, except that occaſioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had ſtood a ſmall table, and on this Lu⯑dovico's ſword, his lamp, the book he had been reading, and the remnant of his flaſk of wine ſtill remained. At the foot of the table, too, was the baſket with ſome fragments of proviſion and wood.

Henri and the ſervant now uttered their aſtoniſhment without reſerve, and, though the Count ſaid little, there was a ſeriouſneſs in his manner, that expreſſed much. It ap⯑peared, [133] that Ludovico muſt have quitted theſe rooms by ſome concealed paſſage, for the Count could not believe, that any ſuper⯑natural means had occaſioned this event, yet, if there was any ſuch paſſage, it ſeemed inex⯑plicable why he ſhould retreat through it, and it was equally ſurpriſing, that not even the ſmalleſt veſtige ſhould appear, by which his progreſs could be traced. In the rooms every thing remained as much in order as if he had juſt walked out by the common way.

The Count himſelf aſſiſted in lifting the arras, with which the bed-chamber, ſaloon and one of the anti-rooms were hung, that he might diſcover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after a laborious ſearch, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the apartments, having ſecured the door of the laſt anti-chamber, the key of which he took into his own poſſeſſion. He then gave orders, that ſtrict ſearch ſhould be made for Ludovico not only in the cha⯑teau, but in the neighbourhood, and, retir⯑ing [134] with Henri to his cloſet, they remained there in converſation for a conſiderable time, and whatever was the ſubject of it, Henri from this hour loſt much of his vi⯑vacity, and his manners were particularly grave and reſerved, whenever the topic, which now agitated the Count's family with wonder and alarm, was introduced.

On the diſappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix ſeemed ſtrengthened in all his for⯑mer opinions concerning the probability of apparitions, though it was difficult to diſ⯑cover what connection there could poſſibly be between the two ſubjects, or to account for this effect otherwiſe than by ſuppoſing, that the myſtery attending Ludovico, by exciting awe and curioſity, reduced the mind to a ſtate of ſenſibility, which ren⯑dered it more liable to the influence of ſu⯑perſtition in general. It is, however, cer⯑tain, that from this period the Baron and his adherents became more bigoted to their own ſyſtems than before, while the terrors of the Count's ſervants increaſed to an ex⯑ceſs, [135] that occaſioned many of them to quit the manſion immediately, and the reſt re⯑mained only till others could be procured, to ſupply their places.

The moſt ſtrenuous ſearch after Ludo⯑vico proved unſucceſsful, and, after ſeveral days of indefatigable enquiry, poor An⯑nette gave herſelf up to deſpair, and the other inhabitants of the chateau to amaze⯑ment.

Emily, whoſe mind had been deeply af⯑fected by the diſaſtrous fate of the late Mar⯑chioneſs and with the myſterious connec⯑tion, which ſhe fancied had exiſted between her and St. Aubert, was particularly im⯑preſſed by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loſs of Ludovico, whoſe integrity and faithful ſervices claim⯑ed both her eſteem and gratitude. She was now very deſirous to return to the quiet retirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received with real ſorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately ſet aſide by the Count, for whom ſhe felt much of [136] the reſpectful love and admiration of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothée's con⯑ſent, ſhe, at length mentioned the appear⯑ance, which they had witneſſed in the cham⯑ber of the deceaſed Marchioneſs. At any other period, he would have ſmiled at ſuch a relation, and have believed, that its object had exiſted only in the diſtempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with ſeriouſneſs, and, when ſhe concluded, requeſted of her a promiſe, that this occur⯑rence ſhould reſt in ſilence. "Whatever may be the cauſe and the import of theſe extraordinary occurrences," added the Count, "time only can explain them. I ſhall keep a wary eye upon all that paſſes in the chateau, and ſhall purſue every poſ⯑ſible means of diſcovering the fate of Lu⯑dovico. Meanwhile, we muſt be prudent and be ſilent. I will myſelf watch in the north chambers, but of this we will ſay no⯑thing, till the night arrives, when I purpoſe doing ſo."

The Count then ſent for Dorothée, and [137] required of her alſo a promiſe of ſilence, concerning what ſhe had already, or might in future witneſs of an extraordinary na⯑ture; and this ancient ſervant now related to him the particulars of the Marchioneſs de Villeroi's death, with ſome of which he appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was evidently ſurpriſed and agitated. After liſtening to this narrative, the Count retired to his cloſet, where he remained alone for ſeveral hours; and, when he again appeared, the folemnity of his manner ſurpriſed and alarmed Emily, but ſhe gave no utterance to her thoughts.

On the week following the diſappearance of Ludovico, all the Count's gueſts took leave of him, except the Baron, his ſon Monſ. St. Foix, and Emily; the latter of whom was ſoon after embarraſſed and di⯑ſtreſſed by the arrival of another viſitor, Monſ. Du Pont, which made her deter⯑mine upon withdrawing to her convent im⯑mediately. The delight, that appeared in his countenance, when he met her, told [138] that he brought back the ſame ardour of paſſion, which had formerly baniſhed him from Chateau-le-Blanc. He was received with reſerve by Emily, and with pleaſure by the Count, who preſented him to her with a ſmile, that ſeemed intended to plead his cauſe, and who did not hope the leſs for his friend, from the embarraſſment ſhe be⯑trayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer ſympathy, ſeemed to underſtand her manner, and his countenance quickly loſt its vivacity, and ſunk into the languor of deſpondency.

On the following day, however, he ſought an opportunity of declaring the purport of bis viſit, and renewed his ſuit; a declara⯑tion, which was received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to leſſen the pain ſhe might inſlict by a ſecond rejection, with aſſurances of eſteem and friendſhip; yet ſhe left him in a ſtate of mind, that claimed and excited her tendereſt compaſſion; and, being more ſenſible than ever of the impro⯑priety of remaining longer at the chateau, [139] ſhe immediately ſought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of re⯑turning to the convent.

"My dear Emily," ſaid he, "I obſerve, with extreme concern, the illuſion you are encouraging—an illuſion common to young and ſenſible minds. Your heart has re⯑ceived a ſevere ſhock; you believe you can never entirely recover it, and you will en⯑courage this belief, till the habit of in⯑dulging ſorrow will ſubdue the ſtrength of your mind, and diſcolour your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me diſſi⯑pate this illuſion, and awaken you to a ſenſe of your danger."

Emily ſmiled mournfully, "I know what you would ſay, my dear ſir," ſaid ſhe, "and am prepared to anſwer you. I feel, that my heart can never know a ſecond af⯑fection; and that I muſt never hope even to recover its tranquillity—if I ſuffer myſelf to enter into a ſecond engagement."

"I know, that you feel all this," replied the Count; "and I know, alſo, that time [140] will overcome theſe feelings, unleſs you che⯑riſh them in ſolitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderneſs. Then, indeed, time will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to ſpeak on this ſubject, and to ſympathize in your ſufferings," added the Count, with an air of ſolemnity, "for I have known what it is to love, and to la⯑ment the object of my love. Yes," conti⯑nued he, while his eyes filled with rears, "I have ſuffered!—but thoſe times have paſſed away—long paſſed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion."

"My dear ſir," ſaid Emily, timidly, "what mean thoſe tears?—they ſpeak, I fear, another language—they plead for me."

"They are weak tears, for they are uſe⯑leſs ones," replied the Count, drying them, "I would have you ſuperior to ſuch weak⯑neſs. Theſe, however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been oppoſed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of madneſs! Judge, then, whether I have not cauſe to [141] warn you of an indulgence, which may pro⯑duce ſo terrible an effect, and which muſt certainly, if not oppoſed, overcloud the years, that otherwiſe might be happy. M. Du Pont is a ſenſible and amiable man, who has long been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are unexceptionable;—after what I have ſaid, it is unneceſſary to add, that I ſhould rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would pro⯑mote it. Do not weep, Emily," continued the Count, taking her hand, "there is hap⯑pineſs reſerved for you."

He was ſilent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, "I do not wiſh, that you ſhould make a violent effort to overcome your feelings; all I, at preſent, aſk, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would lead you to a remembrance of the paſt; that you will ſuffer your mind to be engaged by preſent objects; that you will al⯑low yourſelf to believe it poſſible you may yet be happy; and that you will ſometimes think with complacency of poor Du Pont, [142] and not condemn him to the ſtate of deſpon⯑dency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw you."

"Ah! my dear ſir," ſaid Emily, while her tears ſtill fell, "do not ſuffer the bene⯑volence of your wiſhes to miſlead Monſ.Du Pont with an expectation that I can ever ac⯑cept his hand. If I underſtand my own heart, this never can be; your inſtruction I can obey in almoſt every other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief."

"Leave me to underſtand your heart," replied the Count, with a faint ſmile. "If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in other inſtances, I will pardon your incredulity, reſpecting your future con⯑duct towards Monſ. Du Pont. I will not even preſs you to remain longer at the cha⯑teau than your own ſatisfaction will permit; but though I forbear to oppoſe your preſent retirement, I ſhall urge the claims of friend⯑ſhip for your future viſits."

Tears of gratitude mingled with thoſe of tender regret, while Emily thanked the [143] Count for the many inſtances of friendſhip ſhe had received from him; promiſed to be directed by his advice upon every ſub⯑ject but one, and aſſured him of the plea⯑ſure, with which ſhe ſhould, at ſome future period, accept the invitation of the Counteſs and himſelf—if Monſ. Du Pont was not at the chateau.

The Count ſmiled at this condition. "Be it ſo," ſaid he, "meanwhile the convent is ſo near the chateau, that my daughter and I ſhall often viſit you; and if, ſometimes, we ſhould dare to bring you another viſitor—will you forgive us?"

Emily looked diſtreſſed, and remained ſilent.

"Well," rejoined the Count, "I will purſue this ſubject no further, and muſt now entreat your forgiveneſs for having preſſed it thus far. You will, however, do me the juſtice to believe, that I have been urged only by a ſincere regard for your hap⯑pineſs, and that of my amiable friend Monſ. Du Pont."

[144] Emily, when ſhe left the Count, went to mention her intended departure to the Coun⯑teſs, who oppoſed it with polite expreſſions of regret; after which, ſhe ſent a note to acquaint the lady abbeſs, that ſhe ſhould return to the convent; and thither ſhe with⯑drew on the evening of the following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, ſaw her de⯑part, while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would ſome⯑times regard him with a more favourable eye.

She was pleaſed to find herſelf once more in the tranquil retirement of the convent, where ſhe experienced a renewal of all the maternal kindneſs of the abbeſs, and of the ſiſterly attentions of the nuns. A report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had already reached them, and, after ſupper, on the evening of her arrival, it was the ſubject of converſation in the convent parlour, where ſhe was requeſted to men⯑tion ſome particulars of that unaccountable event. Emily was guarded in her conver⯑ſation, [145] on this ſubject, and briefly related a few circumſtances concerning Ludovico, whoſe diſappearance, her auditors almoſt unanimouſly agreed, had been effected by ſupernatural means.

"A belief had ſo long prevailed," ſaid a nun, who was called ſiſter Frances, "that the chateau was haunted, that I was ſurpriſed, when I heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former poſſeſſor, I fear, had ſome deed of conſcience to atone for; let us hope, that the virtues of its preſent owner will preſerve him from the puniſhment due to the errors of the laſt, if, indeed, he was criminal."

"Of what crime, then, was he ſuſpected?" ſaid a Mademoiſelle Feydeau, a boarder at the convent.

"Let us pray for his ſoul!" ſaid a nun, who had till now ſat in ſilent attention. "If he was criminal, his puniſhment in this world was ſufficient."

There was a mixture of wildneſs and ſo⯑lemnity in her manner of delivering this, [146] which ſtruck Emily exceedingly; but Ma⯑demoiſelle repeated her queſtion, without noticing the ſolemn eagerneſs of the nun.

"I dare not preſume to ſay what was his crime," replied ſiſter Frances; "but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary na⯑ture, reſpecting the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, ſoon after the death of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards returned to it. I was not here at the time, ſo I can only mention it from report, and ſo many years have paſſed ſince the Marchioneſs died, that few of our ſiſterhood, I believe, can do more."

"But I can," ſaid the nun, who had be⯑fore ſpoke, and whom they called ſiſter Agnes.

"You then," ſaid Mademoiſelle Fey⯑deau, "are poſſibly acquainted with cir⯑cumſtances, that enable you to judge, whe⯑ther he was criminal or not, and what was the crime imputed to him."

"I am," replied the nun; "but who ſhall dare to ſcrutinize my thoughts—who [147] ſhall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge, and to that judge he is gone!"

Emily looked with ſurpriſe at ſiſter Frances, who returned her a ſignificant glance."

"I only requeſted your opinion," ſaid Mademoiſelle Feydeau, mildly; "if the ſubject; is diſpleaſing to you, I will drop it."

"Diſpleaſing!"—ſaid the nun, with em⯑phaſis.—"We are idle talkers; we do not weigh the meaning of the words we uſe; diſpleaſing is a poor word. I will go pray." As ſhe ſaid this ſhe roſe from her ſeat, and with a profound ſigh quitted the room.

"What can be the meaning of this?" ſaid Emily, when ſhe was gone.

"It is nothing extraordinary," replied ſiſter Frances, "ſhe is often thus; but ſhe has no meaning in what ſhe ſays. Her intellects are at times deranged. Did you never ſee her thus before?"

"Never," ſaid Emily. "I have, indeed, Sometimes, thought, that there was the me⯑lancholy [148] of madneſs in her look, but never before perceived it in her ſpeech. Poor ſoul, I will pray for her!"

"Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with burs," obſerved the lady abbeſs, "ſhe has need of them."

"Dear lady," ſaid Mademoiſelle Fey⯑deau, addreſſing the abbeſs, "what is your opinion of the late Marquis? The ſtrange circumſtances, that have occurred at the chateau, have ſo much awakened my curi⯑oſity, that I ſhall be pardoned the queſtion. What was his imputed crime, and what the puniſhment, to which ſiſter Agnes alluded?"

"We muſt be cautious of advancing our opinion," ſaid the abbeſs, with an air of reſerve, mingled with ſolemnity, "we muſt be cautious of advancing our opinion on ſo delicate a ſubject. I will not take upon me to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to ſay what was the crime of which he was ſuſpected; but, concerning the puniſhment our daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he ſuffered. She probably [149] alluded to the ſevere one, which an exaſpe⯑rated conſcience can inflict. Beware, my children, of incurring ſo terrible a puniſh⯑ment—it is the purgatory of this life! The late Marchioneſs I knew well; ſhe was a pattern to ſuch as live in the world; nay, our ſacred order need not have bluſhed to copy her virtues! Our holy convent re⯑ceived her mortal part; her heavenly ſpirit, I doubt not, aſcended to its ſanctuary!"

As the abbeſs ſpoke this, the laſt bell of veſpers ſtruck up, and ſhe roſe. "Let us go, my children," ſaid ſhe, "and intercede for the wretched; let us go and confeſs our ſins, and endeavour to purify our ſouls for the heaven, to which ſhe is gone!"

Emily was affected by the ſolemnity of this exhortation, and, remembering her fa⯑ther, "The heaven, to which he, too, is gone!" ſaid ſhe, faintly, as ſhe ſuppreſſed her ſighs, and followed the abbeſs and the nuns to the chapel.

CHAP. VIII.

COUNT DE VILLEFORT, at length, received a letter from the advocate at Avignon, en⯑couraging Emily to aſſert her claim to the eſtates of the late Madame Montoni; and, about the ſame time, a meſſenger arrived from Monſieur Queſnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law on this ſub⯑ject unneceſſary, ſince it appeared, that the only perſon, who could have oppoſed her claim, was now no more. A friend of M. Queſnel, who reſided at Venice, had ſent him an account of the death of Montoni, who had been brought to trial with Orſino, as his ſuppoſed accomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orſino was [151] found guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing being diſcovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge, they were all releaſed, except. Montoni, who, being conſidered by the ſe⯑nate as a very dangerous perſon, was, for other reaſons, ordered again into confine⯑ment, where, it was ſaid, he had died in a doubtful and myſterious manner, and not without ſuſpicion of having been poiſoned. The authority, from which M. Queſnel had received this information, would not al⯑low him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily, that ſhe had now only to lay claim to the eſtates of her late aunt, to ſecure them, and added, that he would himſelf aſſiſt in the neceſſary forms of this buſineſs. The term, for which La Vallée had been let being now alſo nearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumſtance, and adviſed her to take the road thither, through Tholouſe, where he promiſed to meet her, and where it would be proper for her to take poſſeſſion of the eſtates, of the late Madame Montoni; [152] adding, that he would ſpare her any diffi⯑culties, that might occur on that occaſion from the want of knowledge on the ſubject, and that he believed it would be neceſſary for her to be at Tholouſe, in about three weeks from the preſent time.

An increaſe of fortune ſeemed to have awakened this ſudden kindneſs in M. Queſnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more reſpect for the rich heireſs, than he had ever felt compaſſion for the poor and unfriended orphan.

The pleaſure, with which ſhe received this intelligence, was clouded when ſhe con⯑ſidered, that he, for whoſe ſake ſhe had once regretted the want of fortune, was no longer worthy of ſharing it with her; but, remem⯑bering the friendly admonition of the Count, ſhe checked this melancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude for the unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no inconſiderable part of her ſatisfaction to know, that La Vallée, her na⯑tive home, which was endeared to her by it's [153] having been the reſidence of her parents, would ſoon be reſtored to her poſſeſſion. There ſhe meant to fix her future reſidence, for, though it could not be compared with the chateau at Tholouſe, either for extent, or magnificence, its pleaſant ſcenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, had claims upon her heart, which ſhe was not inclined to ſacrifice to oſtentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Queſnel for the active intereſt he took in her concerns, and to ſay, that ſhe would meet him at Tho⯑louſe at the appointed time.

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give Emily the ad⯑vice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of M. Queſnel's letter, and gave her his ſincere congratulations, on the occa⯑ſion; but ſhe obſerved, that, when the firſt expreſſion of ſatisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unuſual gravity ſucceeded, and ſhe ſcarcely heſitated to enquire its cauſe.

"It has no new occaſion," replied the [154] Count; "I am haraſſed and perplexed by the confuſion, into which my family is thrown by their fooliſh ſuperſtition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can neither admit to be true, or prove to be falſe; and I am, alſo, very anxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not been able to obtain information. Every part of the chateau and every part of the neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been ſearched, and I know not what further can be done, ſince I have already offered large rewards for the diſcovery of him. The keys of the north apartment I have not ſuffered to be out of my poſſeſſion, ſince he diſap⯑peared, and I mean to watch in thoſe chambers, myſelf, this very night."

Emily, ſeriouſly alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with thoſe of the Lady Blanche, to diſſuade him from his pur⯑poſe.

"What ſhould I fear?" ſaid he. "I have no faith in ſupernatural combats, and for human oppoſition I ſhall be prepared; [155] nay, I will even promiſe not to watch alone."

"But who, dear ſir, will have courage enough to watch with you?" ſaid Emily.

"My ſon," replied the Count. "If I am not carried off in the night," added he, ſmiling, "you ſhall hear the reſult of my adventure, to-morrow."

The Count and Lady Blanche, ſhortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, and re⯑turned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his intention, who, not without ſome ſecret reluctance, conſented to be the partner of his watch; and, when the deſign was mentioned after ſupper, the Counteſs was terrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating, that he would not tempt his fate, as Ludo⯑vico had done. "We know not," added the Baron, "the nature, or the power of an evil ſpirit; and that ſuch a ſpirit haunts thoſe chambers can now, I think, ſcarcely be doubted. Beware, my lord, how you pro⯑voke its vengeance, ſince it has already [156] given us one terrible example of its malice. I allow it may be probable, that the ſpirits of the dead are permitted to return to the earth only on occaſions of high import; but the preſent import may be your deſtruc⯑tion."

The Count could not forbear ſmiling; "Do you think then, Baron," ſaid he, "that my deſtruction is of ſufficient importance to draw back to earth the ſoul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no occaſion for ſuch means to accompliſh the deſtruc⯑tion of any individual. Wherever the myſ⯑tery reſts, I truſt I ſhall, this night, be able to detect it. You know I am not ſuperſti⯑tious."

"I know that you are incredulous," in⯑terrupted the Baron.

"Well, call it what you will, I meant to ſay, that, though you know I am free from ſuperſtition—if any thing ſupernatural has appeared, I doubt not it will appear to me, and if any ſtrange event hangs over my houſe, or if any extraordinary tranſaction [157] has formerly been connected with it, I ſhall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invite diſcovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in good truth, my friend, is what I moſt ex⯑pect, I ſhall take care to be well armed."

The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an aſſumed gaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depreſſed his ſpirits, and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his ſon and followed by the Baron, M. Du Pont and ſome of the do⯑meſtics, who all bade him good night at the outer door. In theſe chambers every thing appeared as when he had laſt been here; even in the bed-room no alteration was viſi⯑ble, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the domeſtics could be prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully examining the chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon the hearth, ſet a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their ſwords upon the table, and, ſtirring the wood into a blaze, began to converſe on [158] indifferent topics. But Henri was often ſilent and abſtracted, and ſometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curioſity round the gloomy apartment; while the Count gradually ceaſed to converſe, and ſat either loſt in thought, or reading a volume of Ta⯑citus, which he had brought to beguile the tediouſneſs of the night.

CHAP. IX.

THE Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, roſe early to en⯑quire the event of the night, when, as he paſſed the Count's cloſet, hearing ſteps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened by his friend himſelf. Rejoicing to ſee him in ſafety, and curious to learn the occurrences of the night, he had not imme⯑diately leiſure to obſerve the unuſual gravity, that overſpread the features of the Count, whoſe reſerved anſwers firſt occaſioned him to notice it. The Count, then ſmiling, en⯑deavoured to treat the ſubject of his curio⯑ſity with levity; but the Baron was ſerious, and purſued his enquiries ſo cloſely, that the Count, at length, reſuming his gravity, ſaid, "Well, my friend, preſs the ſubject no further, I entreat you; and let me re⯑queſt [160] alſo, that you will hereafter be ſilent upon any thing you may think extraordi⯑nary in my future conduct. I do not ſcru⯑ple to tell you, that I am unhappy, and that the watch of the laſt night has not aſſiſted me to diſcover Ludovico; upon every oc⯑currence of the night you muſt excuſe my reſerve."

"But where▪ is Henri?" ſaid the Baron, with ſurpriſe and diſappointment at this denial.

"He is well in his own apartment," re⯑plied the Count. "You will not queſtion him on this topic, my friend, ſince you know my wiſh."

"Certainly not," ſaid the Baron, ſome⯑what chagrined, "ſince it would be diſpleaſ⯑ing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my diſcretion, and drop this unuſual reſerve. However, you muſt allow me to ſuſpect, that you have ſeen rea⯑ſon to become a convert to my ſyſtem, and are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be."

[161] "Let us talk no more upon this ſub⯑ject," ſaid the Count; "you may be aſ⯑ſured, that no ordinary circumſtance has impoſed this ſilence upon me towards a friend, whom I have called ſo for near thirty years; and my preſent reſerve cannot make you queſtion either my eſteem, or the ſin⯑cerity of my friendſhip."

"I will not doubt either," ſaid the Baron, "though you muſt allow me to expreſs my ſurpriſe, at this ſilence."

"To me I will allow it," replied the Count, "but I earneſtly entreat that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thing remarkable you may obſerve in my conduct towards them."

The Baron readily promiſed this, and, after converſing for ſome time on general topics, they deſcended to the breakfaſt⯑room, where the Count met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries by employing light ridicule, and aſſuming an air of uncommon gaiety, while he aſſured them, that they need not appre⯑hend [162] any evil from the north chambers, ſince Henri and himſelf had been permit⯑ted to return from them in ſafety.

Henri, however, was leſs ſucceſsful in diſ⯑guiſing his feelings. From his counte⯑nance an expreſſion of terror was not entire⯑ly faded; he was often ſilent and thought⯑ful, and, when he attempted to laugh at the eager enquiries of mademoiſelle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promiſed, at the convent, and Emily was ſurprifed to perceive a mixture of play⯑ful ridicule and of reſerve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had oc⯑curred there, however, he ſaid nothing, and, when ſhe ventured to remind him of his promiſe to tell her the reſult of his enqui⯑ries, and to aſk if he had received any proof, that thoſe chambers were haunted, his look became ſolemn, for a moment, then, ſeeming to recollect himſelf, he ſmiled, and ſaid, "My dear Emily, do not ſuffer my lady abbeſs to infect your good underſtand⯑ing [163] with theſe fancies; ſhe will teach you to expect a ghoſt in every dark room. But believe me," added he, with a profound ſigh, "the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or ſportive errands, to terrify, or to ſurpriſe the timid." He pauſed, and fell into a momentary thoughtfulneſs, and then added, "We will ſay no more on this ſubject."

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined ſome of the nuns, ſhe was ſurpriſed to find them acquainted with a circumſtance, which ſhe had carefully avoided to mention, and expreſſing their admiration of his intrepidity in having dar⯑ed to paſs a night in the apartment, whence Ludovico had diſappeared; for ſhe had not conſidered with what rapidity a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acqui⯑red their information from peaſants, who brought fruit to the monaſtery, and whoſe whole attention had been fixed, ſince the diſappearance of Ludovico, on what was paſſing in the caſtle.

[164] Emily liſtened in ſilence to the various opinions of the nuns, concerning the con⯑duct of the Count, moſt of whom condemn⯑ed it as raſh and preſumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an evil ſpirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Siſter Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a virtuous mind. He knew himſelf guiltleſs of aught, that ſhould provoke a good ſpirit, and did not fear the ſpells of an evil one, ſince he could claim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command the wicked, and will protect the innocent.

"The guilty cannot claim that protec⯑tion!" ſaid ſiſter Agnes, "let the Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is he, that ſhall dare to call himſelf innocent!—all earthly inno⯑cence is but comparative. Yet ſtill how wide aſunder are the extremes of guilt, and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!"—

The nun, as ſhe concluded, uttered a [165] ſhuddering ſigh, that ſtartled Emily, Who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers; after which the ſiſter roſe, took her hand, gazed earneſtly upon her countenance, for ſome moments, in ſilence, and then ſaid,

"You are young—you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any great crime!—But you have paſſions in your heart,—ſcorpions; they ſleep now—be⯑ware how you awaken them!—they will ſting you, even unto death!"

Emily, affected by theſe words and by the ſolemnity, with which they were de⯑livered, could not ſuppreſs her tears.

"Ah! is it ſo?" exclaimed Agnes, her countenance ſoftening from its ſternneſs—"ſo young, and ſo unfortunate! We are ſiſters, then indeed. Yet, there is no bond of kindneſs among the guilty," ſhe added, while her eyes reſumed their wild expreſ⯑ſion, "no gentleneſs,—no peace, no hope! I knew them all once—my eyes could weep—but now they burn, for now, my [166] ſoul is fixed, and fearleſs!—I lament no more!"

"Rather let us repent, and pray," ſaid another nun. "We are taught to hope, that prayer and penitence will work our ſalvation. There is hope for all who re⯑pent!"

"Who repent and turn to the true faith," obſerved ſiſter Frances.

"For all but me!" replied Agnes ſo⯑lemnly, who pauſed, and then abruptly added, "My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I ſtrike from my me⯑mory all former ſcenes—the figures, that riſe up, like furies, to torment me!—I ſee them, when I ſleep, and, when I am awake, they are ſtill before my eyes! I ſee them now—now!

She ſtood, in a fixed attitude of horror, her ſtraining eyes moving ſlowly round the room, as if they followed ſomething. One of the huns gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm, drew her other hand acroſs her eyes, look⯑ed [167] again, and, ſighing deeply, ſaid, "They are gone—they are gone! I am feveriſh, I know not what I ſay. I am thus, ſome⯑times, but it will go off again, I ſhall ſoon be better. Was not that the veſper⯑bell?"

"No," replied Frances, "the evening ſervice is paſſed. Let Margaret lead you to your cell."

"You are right," replied ſiſter Agnes, "I ſhall be better there. Good night, my ſiſters, remember me in your oriſons!"

When they had withdrawn, Frances, ob⯑ſerving Emily's emotion, ſaid, "Do not be alarmed, our ſiſter is often thus deranged, though I have not lately ſeen her ſo fran⯑tic; her uſual mood is melancholy. This fit has been coming on, for ſeveral days; ſecluſion and the cuſtomary treatment will reſtore her."

"But how rationally she converſed, at firſt!" obſerved Emily," "her ideas fol⯑lowed each other in perfect order."

"Yes," replied the nun, "this is no⯑thing [168] new; nay, I have ſometimes known her argue not only with method, but with acuteneſs, and then, in a moment, ſtart off into madneſs."

"Her conſcience ſeems afflicted," ſaid Emily, "did you ever hear what circum⯑ſtance reduced her to this deplorable con⯑dition?"

"I have," replied the nun, who ſaid no more till Emily repeated the queſtion, when ſhe added in a low voice, and looking ſig⯑nificantly towards the other boarders, "I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our ſiſterhood are at reſt, and you ſhall hear more; but remember we riſe to midnight prayers, and come either before, or after midnight."

Emily promiſed to remember, and, the abbeſs ſoon after appearing, they ſpoke no more of the unhappy nun.

The Count, meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one of thoſe fits of deſpondency, which his attach⯑ment [169] to Emily frequently occaſioned him, an attachment, that had ſubſiſted too long to be eaſily ſubdued, and which had already outlived the oppoſition of his friends. M. Du Pont had firſt ſeen Emily in Gaſcony, during the lifetime of his parent, who, on diſcovering his ſon's partiality for mademoi⯑ſelle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of for⯑tune, forbade him to declare it to her fa⯑mily, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, he had obſerved the firſt command, but had found it impracticable to obey the ſecond, and had, ſometimes, ſoothed his paſſion by viſiting her favourite haunts, among which was the fiſhing-houſe, where, once or twice, he addreſſed her in verſe, concealing his name, in obedience to the promiſe he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic air, to which ſhe had liſtened with ſuch ſurpriſe and admira⯑tion; and there he found the miniature, that had ſince cheriſhed a paſſion fatal to his re⯑poſe. During his expedition into Italy, his [170] father died; but he received his liberty at a moment, when he was the leaſt enabled to profit by it, ſince the object, that rendered it moſt valuable, was no longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he diſcovered Emily, and aſſiſted to releaſe her from a terrible impriſonment, has already ap⯑peared, and alſo the unavailing hope, with which he then encouraged his love, and the fruitleſs efforts, that he had ſince made to overcome it.

The Count ſtill endeavoured, with friend⯑ly zeal, to ſooth him with a belief, that pa⯑tience, perſeverance and prudence would finally obtain for him happineſs and Emi⯑ly; "Time," ſaid he, "will wear away the melancholy impreſſion, which diſap⯑pointment has left on her mind, and ſhe will be ſenſible of your merit. Your ſer⯑vices have already awakened her gratitude, and your ſufferings her pity; and truſt me, my friend, in a heart ſo ſenſible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. When her [171] imagination is reſcued from its preſent de⯑luſion, ſhe will readily accept the homage of a mind like yours."

Du Pont ſighed, while he liſtened to theſe words; and, endeavouring to hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to prolong his viſit at the cha⯑teau, which we now leave for the monaſtery of St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to reſt, Emily ſtole to her appointment with ſiſter Frances, whom ſhe found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a little table, where appeared the image ſhe was addreſſing, and, above, the dim lamp, that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the door opened, ſhe beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done ſo, ſeated herſelf in ſilence beſide the nun's little mattreſs of ſtraw, till her oriſons ſhould conclude. The latter ſoon roſe from her knees, and, taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceived there a human ſcull and bones, lying beſide an hour-glaſs; but the nun, without obſerving [172] her emotion, ſat down on the mattreſs by her, ſaying, "Your curioſity, ſiſter, has made you punctual, but you have nothing remarkable to hear in the hiſtory of poor Agnes, of whom I avoided to ſpeak in the preſence of my lay-ſiſters, only becauſe I would not publiſh her crime to them."

"I ſhall conſider your confidence in me as a favour," ſaid Emily, "and will not miſuſe it."

"Siſter Agnes," reſumed the nun, "is of a noble family, as the dignity of her air muſt already have informed you, but I will not diſhonour their name ſo much as to re⯑veal it. Love was the occaſion of her crime and of her madneſs. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune, and her fa⯑ther, as I have heard, beſtowing her on a nobleman, whom ſhe diſliked, an ill-go⯑verned paſſion proved her deſtruction.—Every obligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and ſhe prophaned her marriage vows; but her guilt was ſoon detected, and ſhe would have fallen a ſacrifice to the ven⯑geance [173] of her huſband, had not her father contrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this, I never could learn; but he ſecreted her in this convent, where he afterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was circulated in the world, that ſhe was dead, and the father, to ſave his daughter, aſſiſted the rumour, and employed ſuch means as induced her huſ⯑band to believe ſhe had become a victim to his jealouſy. You look ſurpriſed," added the nun, obſerving Emily's countenance; "I allow the ſtory is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel."

"Pray proceed," ſaid Emily, "I am in⯑tereſted."

"The ſtory is already told," reſumed the nun, "I have only to mention that the long ſtruggle, which Agnes ſuffered, between love, remorſe and a ſenſe of the duties ſhe had taken upon herſelf in becoming of our order, at length unſettled her reaſon. At firſt, ſhe was frantic and melancholy by quick al⯑ternatives; then, ſhe ſunk into a deep and [174] ſettled melancholy, which ſtill, however, has, at times, been interrupted by fits of wildneſs, and, of late, theſe have again been frequent."

Emily was affected by the hiſtory of the ſiſter, ſome parts of whoſe ſtory brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioneſs de Villeroi, who had alſo been compelled by her father to forſake the object of her affec⯑tions, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothée had related, there appeared no reaſon to ſuppoſe, that ſhe had eſcaped the vengeance of a jealous huſband, or to doubt for a moment the innocence of her conduct. But Emily, while ſhe ſighed over the miſery of the nun, could not forbear ſhedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the Marchioneſs; and, when ſhe returned to the mention of ſiſter Agnes, ſhe aſked Fran⯑ces if ſhe remembered her in her youth, and whether ſhe was then beautiful.

"I was not here at the time, when ſhe took the vows," replied Frances, "which is ſo long ago, that few of the preſent ſiſter⯑hood, [175] I believe, were witneſſes of the cere⯑mony; nay, even our lady mother did not then preſide over the convent: but I can re⯑member, when ſiſter Agnes was a very beau⯑tiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always diſtinguiſhed her, but her beauty, you muſt perceive, is fled; I can ſcarcely diſcover even a veſtige of the lovelineſs, that once animated her features."

"It is ſtrange," ſaid Emily, "but there are moments, when her countenance has ap⯑peared familiar to my memory! You will think me-fanciful, and I think myſelf ſo, for I certainly never ſaw ſiſter Agnes, before I came to this convent, and I muſt, therefore, have ſeen ſome perſon, whom ſhe ſtrongly reſembles, though of this I have no recol⯑lection."

"You have been intereſted by the deep melancholy of her countenance," ſaid Fran⯑ces, "and its impreſſion has probably de⯑luded your imagination; for I might as rea⯑ſonably think I perceive a likeneſs between you and Agnes, as you, that you have ſeen [176] her any where but in this convent, ſince this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years as make your age."

"Indeed!" ſaid Emily.

"Yes," rejoined Frances, "and why does that circumſtance excite your ſur⯑priſe?"

Emily did not appear to notice this queſ⯑tion, but remained thoughtful, for a few moments, and then ſaid, "It was about that ſame period that the Marchioneſs de Ville⯑roi expired."

"That is an odd remark," ſaid Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, ſmiled, and gave the converſation another turn, but it ſoon came back to the ſubject of the un⯑happy nun, and Emily remained in the cell of ſiſter Frances, till the mid-night bell arouſed her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the ſiſter's repoſe, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went to her de⯑votion in the-chapel.

[177] Several days followed, during which Emi⯑ly ſaw neither the Count, or any of his fa⯑mily; and, when, at length, he appeared, ſhe remarked, with concern, that his air was unuſually diſturbed.

"My ſpirits are haraſſed," ſaid he, in anſwer to her anxious enquiries, "and I mean to change my reſidence, for a little while, an experiment, which, I hope, will reſtore my mind to its uſual tranquillity. My daughter and myſelf will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. It lies in a valley of the Pyrenées, that opens to⯑wards Gaſcony, and I have been thinking, Emily, that, when you ſet out for La Val⯑lée, we may go part of the way together; it would be a ſatisfaction to me to guard you towards your home.

She thanked the Count for his friendly conſideration, and lamented, that the neceſ⯑ſity for her going firſt to Tholouſe would render this plan impracticable, "But, when you are at the Baron's reſidence," ſhe added, "you will be only a ſhort journey from La [178] Vallée, and I think, ſir, you will not leave the country without viſiting me; it is unne⯑ceſſary to ſay with what pleaſure I ſhould receive you and the Lady Blanche."

"I do not doubt it," replied the Count, "and I will not deny myſelf and Blanche the pleaſure of viſiting you, if your affairs ſhould allow you to be at La Vallée, about the time when we can meet you there."

When Emily ſaid that ſhe ſhould hope to ſee the Counteſs alſo, ſhe was not ſorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by Mademoiſelle Bearn, to pay a viſit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.

The Count, after ſome further converſa⯑tion on his intended journey and on the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not ſucceed this viſit, before a ſecond letter from M. Queſnel informed her, that he was then at Tholouſe, that La Vallée was at liberty, and that he wiſhed her to ſet off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, with all poſſible diſ⯑patch, ſince his own affairs preſſed him to [179] return to Gaſcony. Emily did not heſitate to obey him, and, having taken an affecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was ſtill included, and of her friends at the convent, ſhe ſet out for Tho⯑louſe, attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a ſteady ſervant of the Count.

CHAP. X.

EMILY purſued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of Langue⯑doc towards the north-weſt; and, on this her return to Tholouſe, which ſhe had laſt left with Madame Montoni, ſhe thought much on the melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now have been living in happineſs there! Mon⯑toni, too, often roſe to her fancy, ſuch as ſhe had ſeen him in his days of triumph, bold, ſpirited and commanding; ſuch alſo as ſhe had ſince beheld him in his days of vengeance; and now, only a few ſhort months had paſſed—and he had no longer the power, or the will to afflict;—he had become [181] come a clod of earth, and his life was va⯑niſhed like a ſhadow! Emily could have wept at his fate, had ſhe not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate aunt ſhe did weep, and all ſenſe of her errors was overcome by the recollection of her misfor⯑tunes.

Other thoughts and other emotions ſuc⯑ceeded, as Emily drew near the well-known ſcenes of her early love, and conſidered, that Valancourt was loſt to her and to himſelf, for ever. At length, ſhe came to the brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, ſhe had given a farewell look to this beloved landſcape, amongſt whoſe woods and fields ſhe had ſo often walked with Valan⯑court, and where he was then to inhabit, when ſhe would be far, far away! She ſaw, once more, that chain of the Pyrenées, which overlooked La Vallée, riſing, like faint clouds, on the horizon. "There, too, is Gaſcony, extended at their feet!" ſaid ſhe, "O my father,—my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!" ſhe added, drying [182] the tears, that obſcured her ſight,—" and Tholouſe, and my aunt's manſion—and the groves in her garden!—O my friends! are ye all loſt to me—muſt I never, never ſee ye more!" Tears ruſhed again to her eyes, and. ſhe continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly occaſioned the carriage to overſet, when, looking up, ſhe perceived another part of the well-known ſcene around Tholouſe, and all the reflec⯑tions and anticipations, which ſhe had ſuf⯑fered, at the moment, when ſhe bade it laſt adieu, came with recollected force to her heart. She remembered how anxiouſly ſhe had looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happineſs concerning Va⯑lancourt, and what depreſſing fears had aſ⯑ſailed her; the very words ſhe had uttered, as ſhe withdrew her laſt look from the pro⯑ſpect, came to her memory. "Could I but be certain," ſhe had then ſaid, "that I ſhould ever return, and that Valancourt would ſtill live for me—I ſhould go in peace!"

[183] Now, that futurity, ſo anxiouſly antici⯑pated, was arrived, ſhe was returned—but what a dreary blank appeared!—Valancourt no longer lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy ſatisfaction of contem⯑plating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the ſame Valancourt ſhe had cheriſhed there—the ſolace of many a mourn⯑ful hour, the animating friend, that had en⯑abled her to bear up againſt the oppreſſion of Montoni—the diſtant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy proſpect! On per⯑ceiving this beloved idea to be an illuſion of her own creation, Valancourt ſeemed to be annihilated, and her ſoul ſickened at the blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death, ſhe thought ſhe could have endured with more fortitude, than this diſcovery; for then, amidſt all her grief, ſhe could have looked in ſecret upon the image of goodneſs, which her fancy had drawn of him, and comfort would have mingled with her ſuffering!

Drying her tears, ſhe looked, once more, [184] upon the landſcape, which had excited them, and perceived, that ſhe was paſſing the very bank, where ſhe had taken leave of Valan⯑court, on the morning of her departure from Tholouſe, and ſhe now ſaw him, through her returning tears, ſuch as he had appeared, when ſhe looked from the carriage to give him a laſt adieu—ſaw him leaning mourn⯑fully againſt the high trees, and remembered the fixed look of mingled tenderneſs and anguiſh, with which he had then regarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and ſhe ſunk back in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it ſtopped at the gates of what was now her own manſion.

Theſe being opened, and by the ſervant, to whoſe care the chateau had been entruſt⯑ed, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting, ſhe haſtily paſſed through the great hall, now ſilent and ſolitary, to a large oak parlour, the common ſitting room of the late Madame Montoni, where, inſtead of being received by M. Queſnel, ſhe found a letter from him, informing her, that buſineſs of [185] conſequence had obliged him to leave Tho⯑louſe two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not ſorry to be ſpared his pre⯑ſence, ſince his abrupt departure appeared to indicate the ſame indifference, with which he had formerly regarded her. This letter informed her, alſo, of the progreſs he had made in the ſettlement of her affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning the forms of ſome buſineſs, which remained for her to tranſact. But M. Queſnel's unkind⯑neſs did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned to the remembrance of the perſons ſhe had been accuſtomed to ſee in this manſion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and un⯑fortunate Madame Montoni. In the room, where ſhe now ſat, ſhe had breakfaſted with her on the morning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought moſt for⯑cibly to her recollection all ſhe had herſelf ſuffered, at that time, and the many gay ex⯑pectations, which her aunt had formed, re⯑ſpecting the journey before her. While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes [186] wandered unconſciouſly to a large window, that looked upon the garden, and here new memorials of the paſt ſpoke to her heart, for ſhe ſaw extended before her the very avenue, in which ſhe had parted with Va⯑lancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender intereſt he had ſhewn, concerning her future happineſs, his earneſt remonſtrances againſt her committing her⯑ſelf to the power of Montoni, and the truth of his affection, came afreſh to her memory. At this moment, it appeared almoſt impoſſi⯑ble, that Valancourt could have become un⯑worthy of her regard, and ſhe doubted all that ſhe had lately heard to his diſadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed Count De Villefort's report of him. Over⯑come by the recollections, which the view of this avenue occaſioned, ſhe turned abruptly from the window, and ſunk into a chair be⯑ſide it, where ſhe ſat, given up to grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, arouſed her.

"Dear madam, how melancholy this place [187] looks now," ſaid Annette, "to what it uſed to do! It is diſmal coming home, when there is nobody to welcome one!"

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tears fell again, and, as ſoon as ſhe had taken the coffee, ſhe retired to her apartment, where ſhe endeavoured to repoſe. her fatigued ſpi⯑rits. But buſy memory would ſtill ſupply her with the viſions of former times: ſhe ſaw Valancourt intereſting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appear in the days of their early love, and, amidſt the ſcenes, where ſhe had believed that they ſhould ſometimes paſs their years together!—but, at length, ſleep cloſed theſe afflicting ſcenes from her view.

On the following morning, ſerious occu⯑pation recovered her from ſuch melancholy reflections; for, being deſirous of quitting Tholouſe, and of haſtening on to La Val⯑lee, ſhe made ſome enquiries into the condi⯑tion of the eſtate, and immediately diſ⯑patched a part of the neceſſary buſineſs [188] concerning it, according to the directions of Monſ. Queſnel. It required a ſtrong effort to abſtract her thoughts from other intereſts ſufficiently to attend to this, but ſhe was re⯑warded for her exertions by again experi⯑encing, that employment is the ſureſt anti⯑dote to ſorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to buſi⯑neſs; and, among other concerns, ſhe em⯑ployed means to learn the ſituation of all her poor tenants, that ſhe might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her ſpirits were ſo much ſtrengthened, that ſhe thought ſhe could bear to viſit the gardens, where ſhe had ſo often walked with Valancourt; and, know⯑ing, that, if ſhe delayed to do ſo, their ſcenes would only affect her the more, whenever they ſhould be viewed, ſhe took advantage of the preſent ſtate of her mind, and entered them.

Paſſing haſtily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, ſhe hurried up the great avenue, ſcarcely permitting her me⯑mory [189] to dwell for a moment on the circum⯑ſtance of her having here parted with Valan⯑court, and ſoon quitted this for other walks leſs intereſting to her heart. Theſe brought her, at length, to the flight of ſteps, that led from the lower garden to the terrace, on ſeeing which, ſhe became agitated, and heſi⯑tated whether to aſcend, but, her reſolution returning, ſhe proceeded.

"Ah!" ſaid Emily, as ſhe aſcended, "theſe are the ſame high trees, that uſed to wave over the terrace, and theſe the ſame flowery thickets—the liburnum, the wild roſe, and the cerinthe—which were wont to grow beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants, which Valancourt ſo carefully reared!—O when laſt I ſaw them!"—She checked the thought, but could not reſtrain her tears, and, after walking ſlowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of this well-known ſcene, increaſed ſo much, that ſhe was obliged to ſtop, and lean upon the wall of the ter⯑race. It was a mild, and beautiful evening.

[190] The ſun was ſetting over the extenſive land⯑ſcape, to which his beams, ſloping from be⯑neath a dark cloud, that overhung the weſt, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted ſummits of the groves, that roſe from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and Valancourt had often admired together this ſcene, at the ſame hour; and it was exactly on this ſpot, that, on the night preceding her departure for Italy, ſhe had liſtened to his remon⯑ſtrances againſt the journey, and to the pleadings of paſſionate affection. Some ob⯑ſervations, which ſhe made on the landſcape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it all the minute particulars of that conver⯑ſation;—the alarming doubts he had ex⯑preſſed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had ſince been fatally confirmed; the rea⯑ſons and entreaties he had employed to pre⯑vail with her to conſent to an immediate marriage; the tenderneſs of his love, the paroxyſms of his grief, and the conviction he had repeatedly expreſſed, that they ſhould [191] never meet again in happineſs! All theſe circumſtances roſe afreſh to her mind, and awakened the various emotions ſhe had then ſuffered. Her tenderneſs for Valancourt became as powerful as in the moments, when ſhe thought, that ſhe was parting with him and happineſs together, and when the ſtrength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over preſent ſuffering, rather than to deſerve the reproach of her conſcience by engaging in a clandeſtine marriage.—"Alas!" ſaid Emily, as theſe recol⯑lections came to her mind, "and what have I gained by the fortitude I then prac⯑tiſed?—am I happy now?—He ſaid, we ſhould meet no more in happineſs; but, O! he little thought his own miſconduct would ſeparate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!"

Her reflections increaſed her anguiſh, while ſhe was compelled to acknowledge, that the fortitude ſhe had formerly exerted, if it had not conducted her to happineſs, had ſaved her from irretrievable misfortune [192] —from Valancourt himſelf! But in theſe moments ſhe could not congratulate herſelf on the prudence, that had ſaved her: ſhe could only lament, with bittereſt anguiſh, the circumſtances, which had conſpired to betray Valancourt into a courſe of life ſo different from that, which the virtues, the taſte, and the purſuits of his early years had promiſed; but ſhe ſtill loved him too well to believe, that his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been cri⯑minal. An obſervation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now occurred to her. "This young man," ſaid he, ſpeaking of Valancourt, "has ne⯑ver been at Paris;" a remark, that had ſur⯑priſed her at the time it was uttered, but which me now underſtood, and ſhe ex⯑claimed ſorrowfully, "O Valancourt! if ſuch a friend, as my father had been with you at Paris—your noble, ingenuous na⯑ture would not have fallen,!".

The ſun was now ſet, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy ſubject, ſhe [193] continued her walk; for the penſive ſhade of twilight was pleaſing to her, and the nightingales from the ſurrounding groves began to anſwer each other in the long⯑drawn, plaintive note, which always touched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, that bounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated ſo lightly among their leaves, that they ſcarcely trembled as it paſſed.

Emily came, at length, to the ſteps of the pavilion, that terminated the terrace, and where her laſt interview with Valan⯑court, before her departure from Tholouſe, had ſo unexpectedly taken place. The door was now ſhut, and she trembled, while ſhe heſitated whether to open it; but her wiſh to ſee again a place, which had been the chief ſcene of her former happineſs, at length overcoming her reluctance to en⯑counter the painful regret it would renew, ſhe entered. The room was obſcured by a melancholy ſhade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the hanging foliage of [194] the vines, appeared the duſky landſcape, the Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the weſt ſtill glowing. A chair was placed near one of the balconies, as if ſome perſon had been ſitting there, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as uſual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved ſince ſhe ſet out for Italy. The ſilent and deſerted air of the place added ſolemnity to her emo⯑tions, for ſhe heard only the low whiſper of the breeze, as it ſhook. the leaves of the vines, and the very faint murmur of the Garonne.

She ſeated herſelf in a chair, near the lat⯑tice, and yielded to the ſadneſs of her heart, while ſhe recollected the circumſtances of her parting interview with Valancourt, on this ſpot. It was here too, that ſhe had paſſed ſome of the happieſt hours of her life with him, when her aunt favoured the connection, for here ſhe had often ſat and worked, while he converſed, or read; and ſhe now well remembered with what diſcri⯑minating [195] judgment, with what tempered energy, he uſed to repeat ſome of the ſub⯑limeſt paſſages of their favourite authors; how often he would pauſe to admire with her their excellence, and with what tender delight he would liſten to her remarks, and correct her taſte.

"And is it poſſible," ſaid Emily, as theſe recollections returned—"is it poſſible, that a mind, ſo ſuſceptible of whatever is grand and beautiful, could ſtoop to low purſuits, and be ſubdued by frivolous temp⯑tations?"

She remembered how often ſhe had ſeen the ſudden tear ſtart in his eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any great or benevolent action, or repeated a ſentiment of the ſame character. "And ſuch a mind," ſaid ſhe, "ſuch a heart, were to be ſacrificed to the habits of a great city!"

Theſe recollections becoming too painful to be endured, ſhe abruptly left the pavi⯑lion, and, anxious to eſcape from the memor⯑ials [196] of her departed happineſs, returned towards the chateau. As ſhe paſſed along the terrace, ſhe perceived a perſon, walking, with a ſlow ſtep, and a dejected air, under the trees, at ſome diſtance. The twilight, which was now deep, would not allow her to diſtinguiſh who it was, and ſhe imagined it to be one of the ſervants, till, the ſound of her ſteps ſeeming to reach him, he turn⯑ed half round, and ſhe thought ſhe ſaw Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he inſtantly ſtruck among the thickets on the left, and diſap⯑peared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he had vaniſhed, and her frame trembling ſo exceſſively, that ſhe could ſcarcely ſupport herſelf, remained, for ſome moments, unable to quit the ſpot, and ſcarcely conſcious of exiſtence. With her recollection, her ſtrength returned, and ſhe hurried toward the houſe, where ſhe did not venture to enquire who had been in the gardens, leſt ſhe ſhould betray her emotion; and ſhe ſat down alone, endea⯑vouring [197] to recollect the figure, air and fea⯑tures of the perſon ſhe had juſt ſeen. Her view of him, however, had been ſo tran⯑ſient, and the gloom had rendered it ſo im⯑perfect, that ſhe could remember nothing with exactneſs; yet the general appear⯑ance of his figure, and his abrupt depar⯑ture, made her ſtill believe, that this per⯑ſon was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, ſhe thought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him, had ſuggeſted his image to her uncertain ſight: but this conjecture was fleeting. If it was himſelf, whom ſhe had ſeen, ſhe wondered much, that he ſhould be at Tholouſe, and more, how he had gained admittance into the garden; but as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire whether any ſtranger had been admitted, ſhe was reſtrained by an unwillingneſs to betray her doubts; and the evening was paſſed in anxious conjecture, and in efforts to diſmiſs the ſubject from her thoughts. But, theſe endeavours were [198] ineffectual, and a thouſand inconſiſtent emotions aſſailed her, whenever ſhe fancied that Valancourt might be near her; now, ſhe dreaded it to be true, and now ſhe fear⯑ed it to be falſe; and, while ſhe conſtantly tried to perſuade herſelf, that ſhe wiſhed the perſon, whom ſhe had ſeen, might not be Valancourt, her heart as conſtantly con⯑tradicted her reaſon.

The following day was occupied by the viſits of ſeveral neighbouring families, for⯑merly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquiſition of theſe eſtates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the ſtrange reports they had heard of her own ſituation; all which was done with the utmoſt decorum, and the vi⯑ſitors departed with as much compoſure as they had arrived.

Emily was wearied by theſe formalities, and diſguſted by the ſubſervient manners of many perſons, who had thought her ſcarce⯑ly [199] worthy of common attention, while ſhe was believed to be a dependant on Madame Montoni.

"Surely," ſaid she, "there is ſome ma⯑gic in wealth, which can thus make per⯑ſons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit themſelves. How ſtrange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, ſhould be treated with more reſpect by the world, than a good man, or a wiſe man in poverty!"

It was evening, before ſhe was left alone, and ſhe then wiſhed to have refreſhed her ſpirits in the free air of her garden; but ſhe feared to go thither, leſt ſhe ſhould meet again the perſon, whom ſhe had ſeen on the preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The ſuſpenſe and anx⯑iety ſhe ſuffered, on this ſubject, ſhe found all her efforts unable to controul, and her ſe⯑cret wiſh to ſee Valancourt once more, though unſeen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride re⯑ſtrained [200] her; and ſhe determined to avoid the poſſibility of throwing herſelf in his way, by forbearing to viſit the gardens, for ſeveral days.

When, after near a week, ſhe again ven⯑tured thither, ſhe made Annette her com⯑panion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often ſtarted as the leaves ruſtled in the breeze, imagining, that ſome perſon was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, ſhe looked forward with apprehenſive expectation. She pur⯑ſued her walk thoughtfully and ſilently, for her agitation would not ſuffer her to converſe with Annette, to whom, however, thought and ſilence were ſo intolerable, that ſhe did not ſcruple at length to talk to her miſtreſs.

"Dear madam," ſaid ſhe, "why do you ſtart ſo? one would think you knew what has happened."

"What has happened?" ſaid Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to command her emotion.

[201] "The night before laſt, you know, ma⯑dam"—

"I know nothing, Annette," replied her lady in a more hurried voice.

"The night before laſt, madam, there was a robber in the garden."

"A robber!" ſaid Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.

"I ſuppoſe he was a robber, madam, What elſe could he be?"

"Where did you ſee him, Annette?" re⯑joined Emily, looking round her, and turning back towards the chateau.

"It was not I that ſaw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was twelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming acroſs the court to go the back way into the houſe, what ſhould he ſee—but ſome⯑body walking in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean gueſſed how it was, and he went into the houſe for his gun."

"His gun!" exclaimed Emily.

"Yes, madam, his gun; and then he [202] came out into the court to watch him. Preſently, he ſees him come ſlowly down the avenue, and lean over the garden gate, and look up at the houſe for a long time; and I warrant he examined it well, and ſet⯑tled what window he ſhould break in at."

"But the gun," ſaid Emily—"the gun!"

"Yes, madam, all in good time. Pre⯑ſently, Jean ſays, the robber opened the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to aſk him his buſineſs: ſo he called out again, and bade him ſay who he was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon his heel, and paſſed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough how it was, and ſo he fired after him."

"Fired!" exclaimed Emily.

"Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look ſo pale, madam? The man was not killed,—I dare ſay; but if he was, his comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the [203] morning, to look for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be ſeen but a track of blood on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man got into the garden, but it was loſt in the graſs, and"—

Annette was interrupted: for Emily's ſpirits died away, and ſhe would have fal⯑len to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and ſupported her to a bench, cloſe to them.

When, after a long abſence, her ſenſes returned, Emily deſired to be led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire further on the ſubject of her alarm, ſhe found herſelf too ill at preſent, to dare the intelligence which it was poſſible ſhe might receive of Valan⯑court. Having diſmiſſed Annette, that ſhe might weep and think at liberty, ſhe endea⯑voured to recollect the exact air of the per⯑ſon, whom ſhe had ſeen on the terrace, and ſtill her fancy gave her the figure of Va⯑lancourt. She had, indeed, ſcarcely a [204] doubt, that it was he whom ſhe had ſeen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the manner of the latter perſon, as deſcribed by Annette, was not that of a robber; nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come alone, to break into a houſe ſo ſpacious as this.

When Emily thought herſelf ſufficiently recovered, to liſten to what Jean might have to relate, ſhe ſent for him; but be could inform her of no circumſtance, that might lead to a knowledge of the perſon, who had been ſhot, or of the conſequence of the wound; and, after ſeverely repri⯑manding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the diſcovery of the wounded perſon, ſhe diſmiſſed him, and herſelf remained in the ſame ſtate of terrible ſuſpenſe. All the tenderneſs ſhe had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the ſenſe of his danger; and the more ſhe conſidered the ſubject, the more her conviction ſtrengthened, that it was he, [205] who had viſited the gardens, for the pur⯑poſe of ſoothing the miſery of diſappointed affection, amidſt the ſcenes of his former happineſs.

"Dear madam," ſaid Annette, when ſhe returned, "I never ſaw you ſo affected before! I dare ſay the man is not killed."

Emily ſhuddered, and lamented bitterly the raſhneſs of the gardener in having fired;

"I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I ſhould have told you before; and he knew ſo too; for, ſays he, "Annette, ſay nothing about this to my lady. She lies on the other ſide of the houſe, ſo did not hear the gun, perhaps; but ſhe would be angry with me, if ſhe knew, ſeeing there is blood. But then," ſays he, "how is one to keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one ſees him?"

"No more of this," ſaid Emily, "pray leave me."

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to [206] the agonizing conſiderations, that had aſſail⯑ed her before, but which ſhe, at length, en⯑deavoured to ſooth by a new remark. If the ſtranger was Valancourt, it was cer⯑tain he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quit the gardens, without aſſiſtance; a circumſtance which did not ſeem probable, had his wound been dangerous. With this conſideration, ſhe endeavoured to ſupport herſelf, during the enquiries, that were making by her ſervants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and ſtill cloſed in uncer⯑tainty, concerning this affair; and Emily, ſuffering in ſilence, at length, drooped, and ſunk under the preſſure of her anx⯑iety. She was attacked by a ſlow fever, and when ſhe yielded to the perſuation of Annette to ſend for medical advice, the physicians preſcribed little beſide air, gen⯑tle exerciſe and amuſement: but how was this laſt to be obtained? She, however, endeavoured to abſtract her thoughts from the ſubject of her anxiety, by employing [207] them in promoting that happineſs in others, which ſhe had loft herſelf; and, when the evening was fine, ſhe uſually took an air⯑ing, including in her ride the cottages of ſome of her tenants, on whoſe condition ſhe made ſuch obſervations, as often en⯑abled her, unaſked, to fulfil their wiſhes.

Her indiſpoſition, and the buſineſs ſhe engaged in, relative to this eſtate, had al⯑ready protracted her ſlay at Tholouſe, beyond the period ſhe had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallée; and now ſhe was unwilling to leave the only place, where it ſeemed poſſible, that certainty could be obtained on the ſubject of her diſtreſs. But the time was come, when her preſence was neceſſary at La Vallée, a let⯑ter from the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herſelf, being then at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, pur⯑poſed to viſit her at La Vallée, on their way home, as ſoon as they ſhould be in⯑formed of her arrival there. Blanche add⯑ed, that they made this viſit, with the [208] hope of inducing her to return with them to Chateau-le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and ſaid that ſhe ſhould be at La Val⯑lée in a few days, made haſty preparations for the journey; and, in thus leaving Tho⯑louſe, endeavoured to ſupport herſelf with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had hap⯑pened to Valancourt, ſhe muſt in this in⯑terval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, ſhe went to take leave of the terrace and the pavilion. The day had been ſultry, but a light ſhower, that fell juſt before ſun-ſet, had cooled the air, and given that ſoft ver⯑dure to the woods and paſtures, which is ſo refreſhing to the eye; while the rain-drops, ſtill trembling on the ſhrubs, glittered in the laſt yellow gleam, that lighted up the ſcene, and the air was filled with fragrance, exhaled by the late ſhower, from herbs and flowers and from the earth itſelf. But the lovely proſpect, which Emily beheld from the terrace, was no longer viewed by her [209] with delight; ſhe ſighed deeply as her eye wandered over it, and her ſpirits were in a ſtate of ſuch dejection, that ſhe could not think of her approaching return to La Val⯑lée, without tears, and ſeemed to mourn again the death of her father, as if it had been an event of yeſterday. Having reach⯑ed the pavilion, ſhe ſeated herſelf at the open lattice, and, while her eyes ſettled on the diſtant mountains, that overlooked Gaſ⯑cony, ſtill gleaming on the horizon, though the ſun had now left the plains below, "Alas!" ſaid ſhe, "I return to your long⯑loſt ſcenes, but ſhall meet no more the pa⯑rents, that were wont to render them delight⯑ful!—no more ſhall ſee the ſmile of wel⯑come, or hear the well-known voice of fondneſs:—all will now be cold and ſilent in what was once my happy home."

Tears ſtole down her cheek, as the re⯑membrance of what that home had been, returned to her; but, after indulging her ſorrow for ſome time, ſhe checked it, ac⯑cuſing herſelf of ingratitude in forgetting [210] the friends, that ſhe poſſeſſed, while ſhe lamented thoſe that were departed; and ſhe, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, without having obſerved a ſhadow of Valancourt or of any other perſon.

CHAP. XI.

ON the following morning, Emily left Tholouſe at an early hour, and reached La Vallée about ſun-ſet. With the melancholy ſhe experienced on the review of a place which had been the reſidence of her parents, and the ſcene of her earlieſt delight, was mingled, after the firſt ſhock had ſubſided, a tender and undeſcribable pleaſure. For time had ſo far blunted the acuteneſs of her grief, that ſhe now courted every ſcene, that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where ſhe had been ac⯑cuſtomed [212] to ſee them, they almoſt ſeemed to live again; and ſhe felt that La Vallée was ſtill her happieſt home. One of the firſt apartments ſhe viſited, was that, which had been her father's library, and here ſhe ſeated herſelf in his arm-chair, and, while ſhe con⯑templated, with tempered reſignation, the picture of paſt times, which her memory gave, the tears ſhe ſhed could ſcarcely be called thoſe of grief.

Soon after her arrival, ſhe was ſurpriſed by a viſit from the venerable M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daugh⯑ter of his late reſpected neighbour, to her long-deſerted home. Emily was comforted by the preſence of an old friend, and they paſſed an intereſting hour in converſing of former times, and in relating ſome of the circumſtances, that had occurred to each, ſince they parted.

The evening was ſo far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that ſhe could not viſit the garden that night; but, on the fol⯑lowing morning, ſhe traced its long-regretted [213] ſcenes with fond impatience; and, as she walked beneath the groves, which her fa⯑ther had planted, and where ſhe had ſo often ſauntered in affectionate converſation with him, his countenance, his ſmile, even the accents of his voice, returned with exactneſs to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender recollections.

This, too, was his favourite ſeaſon of the year, at which they had often together ad⯑mired the rich and variegated tints of theſe woods and the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the view of theſe circumſtances made memory eloquent. As ſhe wandered penſively on, ſhe fancied the following addreſs

One of Emily's earlieſt enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallée, was concerning Thereſa, her father's old ſervant, whom it may be remembered that M. Queſnel had turned from the houſe when it was let, with⯑out any proviſion. Underſtanding that ſhe lived in a cottage at no great diſtance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleaſed to ſee, that her habitation was plea⯑ſantly ſituated on a green ſlope, ſheltered by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme neatneſs. She found the old woman within, picking vine-ſtalks, who, on perceiving her young miſtreſs, was nearly overcome with joy.

[215] "Ah! my dear young lady!" ſaid ſhe, "I thought I ſhould never ſee you again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandiſh country. I have been hardly uſed, ſince you went; I little thought they would have turned me out of my old maſter's family in my old age!"

Emily lamented the circumſtance, and then aſſured her, that ſhe would make her latter days comfortable, and expreſſed ſatisfaction, on ſeeing her in ſo pleaſant an habitation.

Thereſa thanked her with tears, adding, "Yes, mademoiſelle, it is a very comfort⯑able home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of my diſtreſs, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here! I little thought!—but no more of that—"

"And who was this kind friend?" ſaid. Emily: "whoever it was, I ſhall conſider him as mine alſo."

"Ah mademoiſelle! that friend forbad me to blazon the good deed—I muſt not ſay, who it was. But how you are altered ſince I ſaw you laſt! You look ſo pale now, [216] and ſo thin, too; but then, there is my old master's ſmile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodneſs, that uſed to make him ſmile. Alas-a-day! the poor loſt a friend indeed, when he died!"

Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Thereſa obſerving, changed the ſubject. "I heard, mademoiſelle," ſaid ſhe, "that Madame Cheron married a fo⯑reign gentleman, after all, and took you abroad; how does ſhe do?"

Emily now mentioned her death. "Alas!" ſaid Thereſa, "if ſhe had not been my ma⯑ſter's ſiſter, I ſhould never have loved her; ſhe was always ſo croſs. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he was an handſome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiſelle?"

Emily was much agitated.

"A bleſſing on him!" continued The⯑reſa "Ah, my dear young lady, you need not look ſo ſhy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know, that he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoi⯑ſelle, [217] he uſed to come to the chateau, and walk about it, ſo diſconſolate! He would go into every room in the lower part of the houſe, and, ſometimes, he would ſit himſelf down in a chair, with his arms acroſs, and his eyes on the floor, and there he would ſit, and think, and think, for the hour to⯑gether. He uſed to be very fond of the ſouth parlour, becauſe I told him it uſed to be yours; and there he would ſtay, look⯑ing at the pictures, which I ſaid you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung up by the window, and reading in your books, till ſun-ſet, and then he muſt go back to his brother's chateau. And then—"

"It is enough, Thereſa," ſaid Emily.—"How long have you lived in this cottage—and how can I ſerve you? will you re⯑main here, or return and live with me?"

"Nay, mademoiſelle!" ſaid Thereſa, "do not be ſo ſhy to your poor old ſervant. I am ſure it is no diſgrace to like ſuch a good young gentleman."

[218] A deep ſigh eſcaped from Emily.

"Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for that matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not ſay much himſelf. But I ſoon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he would go into the garden, and down to the terrace, and fit under that great tree there, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand; but he did not read much, I fancy; for one day I hap⯑pened to go that way, and I heard ſome⯑body talking. Who can be here? ſays I: I am ſure I let nobody into the garden, but the Chevalier! So I walked ſoftly, to ſee who it could be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himſelf, talking to himſelf about you. And he repeated your name, and ſighed ſo! and ſaid he had loſt you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought he was out in his reckon⯑ing there, but I ſaid nothing, and ſtole away."

[219] "No more of this trifling," ſaid Emily, awakening from her reverie: "it diſpleaſes me;"

"But, when M. Queſnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke the Cheva⯑lier's heart."

"Thereſa," ſaid Emily ſeriouſly, "you muſt name the Chevalier no more!"

"Not name him, mademoiſelle!" cried Thereſa: "what times are come up now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old maſter and you, mademoiſelle."

"Perhaps your love was not well be⯑ſtowed, then," replied Emily, trying to con⯑ceal her tears; "but, however that might be, we ſhall meet no more."

"Meet no more!—not well beſtowed!" exclaimed Thereſa. "What do I hear? No, mademoiſelle, my love was well be⯑ſtowed, for it was the Chevalier Valan⯑court, who gave me this cottage, and has ſupported me in my old age, ever ſince M. Queſnel turned me from my master's houſe."

[220] "The Chevalier Valancourt!" ſaid Emi⯑ly, trembling extremely.

"Yes, mademoiſelle, he himſelf, though he made me promiſe not to tell; but how could one help, when one heard him ill ſpoken of? Ah! dear young lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a more tender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in my diſtreſs, when you was too far off to help me; and M. Queſnel refuſed to do ſo, and bade me go to ſervice again—Alas! I was too old for that I—The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave me money to furniſh it, and bade me ſeek out another poor woman to live with me; and he ordered his brother's ſteward to pay me, every quarter, that which has ſup⯑ported me in comfort. Think then, ma⯑demoiſelle, whether I have not reaſon to ſpeak well of the Chevalier. And there are others, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he has hurt him⯑ſelf by his generoſity, for quarter day is [221] gone by long ſince, and no money for me! But do not weep ſo, mademoiſelle: you are not ſorry ſurely to hear of the poor Cheva⯑lier's goodneſs."

"Sorry!" ſaid Emily, and wept the more. "But how long is it ſince you have ſeen him?"

"Not this many a day, mademoiſelle."

"When did you hear of him?" enquired Emily, wish increaſed emotion.

"Alas! never ſince he went away ſo ſuddenly into Languedoc; and he was bur juſt come from Paris then, or I ſhould have ſeen him; I am ſure. Quarter day is gone by long ſince, and, as I ſaid, no money for me; and I begin, to fear ſome harm has happened to him: and if I was not ſo far from Eſtuviere, and ſo lame, I ſhould have gone to enquire before this time, and I have nobody to ſend ſo far."

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Va⯑lancourt, was now ſcarcely endurable, and, ſince propriety would not ſuffer her to ſend to the chateau of his brother, ſhe [222] requeſted that Thereſa would immediately hire ſome perſon to go to his ſteward from herſelf, and, when he aſked for the quarter⯑age due to her, to make enquiries concern⯑ing Valancourt. But ſhe firſt made The⯑reſa promiſe never to mention her name in this affair, or ever with that of the Cheva⯑lier Valancourt; and her former faithfulneſs to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her aſſurances. Thereſa now joyfully undertook to procure a perſon for this er⯑rand, and then Emily, after giving her a ſum of money to ſupply her with preſent comforts, returned, with ſpirits heavily op⯑preſſed, to her home, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, poſſeſſed of ſo much benevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vices of the world, but affected by the delicate affec⯑tion, which his kindneſs to her old ſervant expreſſed for herſelf.

CHAP. XII.

MEANWHILE Count De-Villefort and Lady Blanche had paſſed a pleaſant fort⯑night at the chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroneſs, during which they made frequent excurſions among the moun⯑tains, and were delighted with the romantic wildneſs of Pyrenéan ſcenery. It was with regret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although with the hope of being ſoon united with them in one family; for it was ſettled, that M. St. Foix, who now at⯑tended them into Gaſcony, ſhould receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc. As the road, from the Baron's reſidence to La Vallée, was [224] over ſome of the wildeſt tract of the Pyre⯑nées, and where a carriage-wheel had never paſſed, the Count hired mules for himſelf and his family, as well as a couple of ſtout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the paſſes of the mountains, and who boaſt⯑ed, too, that they were acquainted with every brake and dingle in the way, could tell the names of all the higheſt points of this chain of Alps, knew every foreſt, that ſpread along their narrow vallies, the ſhalloweſt part of every torrent they muſt croſs, and the exaſt diſtance of every goat-herd's and hunter's cabin they ſhould have occaſion to paſs,—which laſt article of learning required no very capacious memory, for even ſuch ſim⯑ple inhabitants were but thinly ſcattered over theſe wilds.

The Count left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an intention of paſſing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, about half way to La Vallée, of which his guides had informed him; and, though this was frequented chiefly by Spa⯑niſh [225] muleteers, on their route into France, and, of courſe, would afford only ſorry ac⯑commodation, the Count had no alterna⯑tive, for it was the only place like an inn, on the road.

After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themſelves, about ſun⯑ſet, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every ſide, by abrupt heights. They had pro⯑ceeded for many leagues, without ſeeing a human habitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a diſtance, the melancholy tinkling of a ſheep-bell; but now they caught the notes of merry muſic, and pre⯑ſently ſaw, within a little green receſs among the rocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through a dance. The Count, who could not look upon the happineſs, any more than on the miſery of others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this ſcene of ſimple plea⯑ſure. The group before him conſiſted of French and Spaniſh peaſants, the inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, ſome of whom were performing a ſprightly dance, the wo⯑men [226] with caſtanets in their hands, to the ſounds of a lute and a tamborine, till, from the briſk melody of France, the muſic ſoftened into a ſlow movement, to which two female peaſants danced a Spaniſh Pa⯑van.

The Count, comparing this with the ſcenes of ſuch gaiety as he had witneſſed at Paris, where falſe taſte painted the features, and, while it vainly tried to ſupply the glow of nature, concealed the charms of anima⯑tion—where affectation ſo often diſtorted the air, and vice perverted the manners—ſighed to think, that natural graces and innocent pleaſures flouriſhed in the wilds of ſolitude, while they drooped amidſt the concourſe of poliſhed ſociety. But the lengthening ſha⯑dows reminded the travellers, that they had no time to loſe; and, leaving this joyous group, they purſued their way towards the little inn, which was to ſhelter them from the night.

The rays of the ſetting ſun now threw a yellow gleam upon the foreſts of pine and [227] cheſnut, that ſwept down the lower region of the mountains, and gave reſplendent tints to the ſnowy points above. But ſoon, even this light faded faſt, and the ſcenery aſſumed a more tremendous appearance, inveſted with the obſcurity o twilight. Where the torrent had been ſeen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had diſplayed every variety of form and attitude, a dark maſs of mountains now alone appeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its dreadful chaſm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam ſtill lingered on the ſummits of the higheſt Alps, overlooking the deep repoſe of even⯑ing, and ſeeming to make the ſtillneſs of the hour more awful.

Blanche viewed the ſcene in ſilence, and liſtened with enthuſiaſm to the murmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains, and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that came at inter⯑vals on the air. But her enthuſiaſm ſunk into apprehenſion, when, as the ſhadows [228] deepened, ſhe looked upon the doubtful precipice, that bordered the road, as well as on the various fantaſtic forms of dan⯑ger, that glimmered through the obſcu⯑rity beyond it; and ſhe aſked her father, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not conſider the road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the firſt queſtion to the guides, who returned a doubtful anſwer, adding, that, when it was darker, it would be ſafeſt to reſt, till the moon roſe. "It is ſcarcely ſafe to proceed now," ſaid the Count; but the guides, aſſur⯑ing him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived by this aſſurance, again in⯑dulged a penſive pleaſure, as ſhe watched the progreſs of twilight gradually ſpreading its tints over the woods and mountains, and ſtealing from the eye every minuter feature of the ſcene, till the grand outlines of na⯑ture alone remained. Then fell the ſilent dews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among the cliffs, breath⯑ed forth its ſweetneſs; then, too, when the [229] mountain-bee had crept into its bloſſomed bed, and the hum of every little infect, that had floated gaily in the ſun-beam, was huſhed, the found of many ſtreams, not heard till now, murmured at a diſtance.—The bats alone, of all the animals inhabiting this region, ſeemed awake; and, while they ſlitted acroſs the ſilent path, which Blanche was purſuing, ſhe remembered the follow⯑ing lines, which Emily had given her:

[230] To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in darkneſs, af⯑ford a higher delight, than the moſt diſ⯑tinct ſcenery, that the ſun can ſhew. While the fancy thus wanders over landſcapes partly of its own creation, a ſweet compla⯑cency ſteals upon the mind, and

The diſtant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among the woods, or the far-off ſound of a human voice, now loſt and heard again, are circumſtances which wonderfully heighten the enthuſi⯑aſtic tone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who ſaw the preſentations of a ſervid fancy, and felt whatever enthuſiaſm could ſuggeſt, ſometimes interrupted the ſilence, which the reſt of the party ſeemed by mu⯑tual conſent to preſerve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the moſt ſtriking effect of the hour upon the ſcenery; while Blanche, whoſe apprehenſions were, beguiled [231] by the converſation of her lover, yielded to the taſte ſo congenial to his, and they converſed in a low reſtrained voice, the ef⯑fect of the penſive tranquillity, which twi⯑light and the ſcene inſpired, rather than of any fear, that they ſhould be heard. Bur, while the heart was thus ſoothed to ten⯑derneſs, St. Foix gradually mingled, with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection; and he continued to ſpeak, and Blanche to liſten till the mountains, the woods, and the magical illuſions of twi⯑light were remembered no more.

The ſhadows of evening ſoon ſhifted to the gloom of night, which was ſomewhat anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering faſt round the mountains, rolled in dark wreaths along their ſides; and the guides propoſed to reſt, till the moon ſhould riſe, adding, that they thought a ſtorm was coming on. As they looked round for a ſpot, that might afford ſome kind of ſhelter, an object was perceived obſcurely through the duſk, on a point of rock, a little way [232] down the mountain, which they imagined to be a hunter's or a ſhepherd's cabin, and the party, with cautious ſteps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, however, was not rewarded, or their apprehenſions ſoothed; for, on reaching the object of their ſearch, they diſcovered a monumental croſs, which marked the ſpot to have been pollut⯑ed by murder.

The darkneſs would not permit them to read the inſcription; but the guides knew this to be a croſs, raiſed to the memory of a Count de Beliard, who had been mur⯑dered here by a horde of banditti, that had infeſted this part of the Pyrenées, a few years before; and the uncommon ſize of the monument ſeemed to juſtify the ſuppo⯑ſition, that it was erected for a perſon of ſome diſtincion. Blanche ſhuddered, as ſhe liſtened to ſome horrid particulars of the Count's fate, which one of the guides related in a low, reſtrained tone, as if the ſound of his own voice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the croſs, at⯑tending [233] to his narrative, a flaſh of light⯑ning glanced upon the rocks, thunder mut⯑tered at a diſtance, and the travellers, now alarmed, quitted this ſcene of ſolitary hor⯑ror, in ſearch of ſhelter.

Having regained their former track, the guides, as they paſſed on, endeavoured to intereſt the Count by various ſtories of robbery, and even of murder, which had been perpetrated in the very places they muſt unavoidably paſs, with accounts of their own dauntleſs courage and wonder⯑ful eſcapes. The chief guide, or rather he, who was the moſt completely armed, drawing forth one of the four piſtols, that were tucked into his belt, ſwore, that it had ſhot three robbers within the year. He then brandiſhed a claſp-knife of enormous length, and was going to recount the won⯑derful execution it had done, when St, Foix, perceiving, that Blanche was terri⯑fied, interrupted him. The Count, mean⯑while, ſecretly laughing at the terrible hiſ⯑tories and extravagant boaſtings of the man, [254] reſolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche in a whiſper, his deſign, began to recount ſome exploits of his own, which infinitely exceeded any related by the guide.

To theſe ſurpriſing circumſtances he ſo artfully gave the colouring of truth, that the courage of the guides was viſibly affect⯑ed by them, who continued ſilent, long af⯑ter the Count had ceaſed to ſpeak. The loquacity of the chief hero thus laid aſleep, the vigilance of his eyes and ears ſeemed more thoroughly awakened, for he liſtened, with much appearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured at inter⯑vals, and often pauſed, as the breeze, that was now riſing, ruſhed among the pines. But, when he made a ſudden halt before a tuft of cork trees, that projected over the road, and drew forth a piſtol, before he would venture to brave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the Count could no longer refrain from laughter.

Having now, however, arrived at a level [235] ſpot, ſomewhat ſheltered from the air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that roſe over a precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far they were from the inn, the travellers determined to reſt, till the moon ſhould riſe, or the ſtorm diſperſe. Blanche, recalled to a ſenſe of the preſent moment, looked on the ſur⯑rounding gloom, with terror; but giving her hand to St. Foix, ſhe alighted, and the whole party entered a kind of cave, if ſuch it could be called, which was only a ſhal⯑low cavity, formed by the curve of impend⯑ing rocks. A light being ſtruck, a fire was kindled, whoſe blaze afforded ſome degree of cheerfulneſs and no ſmall comfort, for, though the day had been hot, the night air of this mountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly neceſſary alſo to keep off the wolves, with which thoſe wilds were infeſted.

Proviſions being ſpread upon a project⯑tion of the rock, the Count and his family partook of a ſupper, which, in a ſcene leſs [236] rude, would, certainly have been thought leſs excellent. When the repaſt was finiſh⯑ed, St. Foix, impatient for the moon, ſauntered along the precipice, to a point, that fronted the eaſt; but all was yet wrapt in gloom, and the ſilence of night was broken only by the murmuring of woods, that waved far below, or by diſtant thunder, and, now and then, by the faint voices of the party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions of awful ſublimity, the long volumes of ſulphureous clouds, that floated along the upper and middle regions of the air, and the lightnings that flaſhed from them, ſometimes ſilently, and, at others, followed by ſullen peals of thun⯑der, which the mountains feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and the abyſs, on which he ſtood, were diſcovered in the mo⯑mentary light. Upon the ſucceeding dark⯑neſs, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave, threw a partial gleam, illumining ſome points of the oppoſite rocks, and the ſummits of pine-woods, that hung beetling [237] on the cliffs below, while their receſſes ſeemed to frown in deeper ſhade.

St. Foix ſtopped to obſerve the picture, which the party in the cave preſented, where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contraſted by the majeſtic figure of the Count, who was ſeated by her on a rude ſtone, and each was rendered more impreſſive by the groteſque habits and ſtrong features of the guides and other at⯑tendants, who were in the back ground of the piece. The effect of the light, too, was intereſting; on the ſurrounding figures it threw a ſtrong, though pale gleam, and glittered on their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic larch, that impended its ſhade over the cliff above, appeared a red, duſky tint, deepening almoſt imperceptibly into the blackneſs of night.

While St. Foix contemplated the ſcene, the moon, broad and yellow, roſe over the eaſtern ſummits, from among embattled clouds, and ſhewed dimly the grandeur of the heavens, the maſs of vapours, that roll⯑ed [238] half way down the precipice beneath, and the doubtful mountains.

From this romantic reverie he was awa⯑kened by the voices of the guides, repeat⯑ing his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till an hundred tongues ſeemed to call him; when he ſoon quieted the fears of the Count and the Lady Blanche, by returning to the cave. As the ſtorm, however, ſeemed approaching, they did not quit their place of ſhelter; and the Count, ſeated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured to divert the fears of the for⯑mer, and converſed on ſubjects, relating to the natural hiſtory of the ſcene, among which they wandered. He ſpoke of the mineral and foſſile ſubſtances, found in the depths of theſe mountains,—the veins of marble and granite, with which they [239] abounded, the ſtrata of ſhells, diſcovered near their ſummits, many thouſand fathom above the level of the ſea, and at a vaſt diſ⯑tance from its preſent ſhore;—of the tre⯑mendous chaſms and caverns of the rocks, the groteſque form of the mountains, and the various phaenomena, that ſeem to ſtamp upon the world the hiſtory of the deluge. From the natural hiſtory he deſcended to the mention of events and circumſtances, connected with the civil ſtory of the Py⯑renées; named ſome of the moſt remark⯑able fortreſſes, which France and Spain had erected in the paſſes of theſe moun⯑tains; and gave a brief account of ſome celebrated ſieges and encounters in early times, when Ambition firſt frightened So⯑litude from theſe her deep receſſes, made her mountains, which before had echoed only to the torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and, when man's firſt foot⯑ſteps in her ſacred haunts had left the print of blood!

As Blanche ſat, attentive to the narra⯑tive, [240] that rendered the ſcenes doubly in⯑tereſting, and reſigned to ſolemn emotion, while ſhe conſidered, that ſhe was on the very ground, once polluted by theſe events, her reverie was ſuddenly interrupted by a ſound, that came in the wind.—It was the diſtant bark of a watch-dog. The travellers liſtened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew ſtronger, fancied, that the ſound came from no great diſtance; and, the guides hav⯑ing little doubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in ſearch of, the Count deter⯑mined to purſue his way. The moon now afforded a ſtronger, though ſtill an uncertain light, as ſhe moved among broken clouds; and the travellers, led by the ſound, re-com⯑menced their journey along the brow of the precipice, preceded by a ſingle torch, that now contended with the moon-light; for the guides, believing they ſhould reach the inn ſoon after ſun-ſet, had neglected to provide more. In ſilent caution they fol⯑lowed the ſound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, after ſome time [241] entirely ceaſed. The guides endeavoured, however, to point their courſe to the quarter, whence it had iſſued, but the deep roaring of a torrent ſoon ſeized their attention, and pre⯑ſently they came to a tremendous chaſm of the mountain, which ſeemed to forbid all further progreſs. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St. Foix, while the guides traverſed the edge in ſearch of a bridge, which, however rude, might convey them to the oppoſite ſide, and they, at length, confeſſed, what the Count had begun to ſuſpect, that they had been, for ſome time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only, that they had loſt it.

At a little diſtance, was diſcovered a rude and dangerous paſſage, formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown acroſs the chaſm, united the oppoſite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hun⯑ter, to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party, the guides ex⯑cepted, ſhuddered at the proſpect of croſſing this alpine bridge, whoſe ſides afforded no [242] kind of defence, and from which to fall was to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, while Blanche ſtood trembling on the brink, and liſtening to the roar of the waters, which were ſeen deſcending from rocks above, overhung with lofty pines, and thence precipitating themſelves into the deep abyſs, where their white ſurges gleamed faintly in the moon⯑light. The poor animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with inſtinctive caution, neither frightened by the noiſe of the cata⯑ract, or deceived by the gloom, which the impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now, that the ſolitary torch, which had been hitherto of little ſervice, was found to be an ineſtimable treaſure; and Blanche, terrified, ſhrinking, but endeavouring to re⯑collect all her firmneſs and preſence of mind, preceded by her lover and ſupported by her father, followed the red gleam of the torch, in ſafety, to the oppoſite cliff.

As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow paſs, at the bottom of [243] which, the torrent they had juſt croſſed, was heard to thunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping watch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect them from the nightly deſcent of the wolves. The ſound was much nearer than before, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of ſoon reaching a place of repoſe, a light was ſeen to glim⯑mer at a diſtance. It appeared at a height conſiderably above the level of their path, and was loſt and ſeen again, as if the waving branches of trees ſometimes excluded and then admitted its rays. The guides hal⯑looed with all their ſtrength, but the ſound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as a more effectual means of making themſelves known, they fired a piſtol. But, while they liſtened in anxious expectation, the noiſe of the exploſion was alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually ſunk into a ſilence, which no friendly hint of man diſturbed. The light, however, that had been ſeen before, now [244] became plainer, and, ſoon after, voices were heard indiſtinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides repeating the call, the voices ſuddenly ceaſed, and the light diſappeared.

The Lady Blanche was now almoſt ſink⯑ing beneath the preſſure of anxiety, fatigue and apprehenſion, and the united efforts of the Count and St. Foix could ſcarcely ſupport her ſpirits. As they continued to advance, an object was perceived on a point of rock above, which, the ſtrong rays of the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count, from its ſituation and ſome other circumſtances, had little doubt, that it was ſuch, and believing, that the light had proceeded from thence, he en⯑deavoured to re-animate his daughter's ſpirits by the near proſpect of ſhelter and repoſe, which, however rude the accommodation, a ruined watch-tower might afford.

"Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenées," ſaid the Count, anxious only to call Blanche's atten⯑tion from the ſubject of her fears; "and [245] the method, by which they give intelligence of the approach of the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the ſummits of theſe edifices. Signals have thus, ſometimes, been communicated from poſt to poſt, along a frontier line of ſeveral hundred miles in length. Then, as occaſion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their for⯑treſſes and the foreſts, and march forth, to defend, perhaps, the entrance of ſome grand paſs, where, planting themſelves on the heights, they aſſail their aſtoniſhed ene⯑mies, who wind along the glen below, with fragments of the ſhattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon them. The ancient forts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand paſſes of the Pyrenées, are carefully preſerved; but ſome of thoſe in inferior ſta⯑tions have been ſuffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted into the more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the ſhepherd, who, after a day of toil, re⯑tires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, for⯑gets, near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the [246] chace, or the anxiety of collecting his wan⯑dering flocks, while he is ſheltered from the nightly ſtorm."

"But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?" ſaid the Lady Blanche.

"No," replied the Count, "they are ſometimes the aſylum of French and Spa⯑niſh ſmugglers, who croſs the mountains with contraband goods from their reſpec⯑tive countries, and the latter are parti⯑cularly numerous, againſt whom ſtrong parties of the king's troops are ſometimes ſent. But the deſperate reſolution of theſe adventurers, who, knowing, that, if they are taken, they muſt expiate the breach of the law by the moſt cruel death, travel in large parties, well armed, often daunts the courage of the ſoldiers. The ſmugglers, who ſeek only ſafety, never engage, when they can poſſibly avoid it; the military, alſo, who know, that in theſe encounters, danger is certain, and glory almoſt unattain⯑able, are equally reluctant to fight; an en⯑gagement, therefore, very ſeldom happens, [247] but, when it does, it never concludes till after the moſt deſperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche," added the Count: "I have wearied you with a dull ſubject; but ſee, yonder, in the moon-light, is the edifice we have been in ſearch of, and we are fortunate to be ſo near it, before the ſtorm burſts."

Blanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the cliff, on whoſe ſummit the building ſtood, but no light now iſſued from it; the barking of the dog too had, for ſome time, ceaſed, and the guides began to doubt, whether this was really the object of their ſearch. From the diſtance, at which they ſurveyed it, ſhewn imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared to be of more ex⯑tent than a ſingle watch-tower; but the difficulty was how to aſcend the height, whoſe abrupt declivities ſeemed to afford no kind of path-way.

While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the Count, re⯑maining with Blanche and St. Foix at its [248] foot, under the ſhadow of the woods, en⯑deavoured again to beguile the time by con⯑verſation, but again anxiety abſtracted the mind of Blanche; and he then conſulted, apart with St. Foix, whether it would be adviſable, ſhould a path be found, to ven⯑ture to an edifice, which might poſſibly harbour banditti. They conſidered, that their own party was not ſmall, and that ſe⯑veral of them were well armed; and, after enumerating the dangers, to be incurred by paſſing the night in the open wild, expoſed, perhaps, to the effect of a thunder-ſtorm, there remained not a doubt, that they ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above, at any hazard reſpecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the dark⯑neſs and the dead ſilence, that ſurrounded it, appeared to contradict the probability of its being inhabited at all.

A ſhout from the guides arouſed their at⯑tention, after which, in a few minutes, one of the Count's ſervants returned with intelli⯑gence, that a path was found, and they im⯑mediately [249] haſtened to join the guides, when they all aſcended a little winding way cut in the rock among thickets of dwarf wood, and, after much toil and ſome danger, reached the ſummit, where ſeveral ruined towers, ſurrounded by a maſſy wall, roſe to their view, partially illumined by the moon-light. The ſpace around the building was ſilent, and apparently forſaken, but the Count was cautious; "Step ſoftly," ſaid he, in a low voice, "while we reconnoiter the edifice."

Having proceeded ſilently along for ſome paces, they ſtopped at a gate, whoſe portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a mo⯑ment's heſitation, paſled on to the court of entrance, but pauſed again at the head of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along the brow of a precipice. Over this, roſe the main body of the edifice, which was now ſeen to be, not a watch-tower, but one or thoſe ancient fortreſſes, that, from age and neglect, had fallen to decay. Many parts of it, however, appeared to be ſtill entire; [250] it was built of grey ſtone, in the heavy Saxon-gothic ſtyle, with enormous round towers, buttreſſes of proportionable ſtrength, and the arch of the large gate, which ſeemed to open into the hall of the fabric, was round, as was that of a window above. The air of ſolemnity, which muſt ſo ſtrongly have characterized the pile even in the days of its early ſtrength, was now conſiderably heightened by its ſhattered battlements and half-demoliſhed walls, and by the huge maſſes of ruin, ſcattered in its wide area, now ſilent and graſs grown. In this court of entrance ſtood the gigantic remains of an oak, that ſeemed to have flouriſhed and de⯑cayed with the building, which it ſtill ap⯑peared frowningly to protect by the few re⯑maining branches, leafleſs and moſs-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whoſe wide ex⯑tent told how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This fortreſs was evidently once of great ſtrength, and, from its ſitua⯑tion on a point of rock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to an⯑noy, [251] as well as to reſiſt; the Count, there⯑fore, as he ſtood ſurveying it, was ſomewhat ſurpriſed, that it had been ſuffered, ancient as it was, to ſink into ruins, and its preſent lonely and deſerted air excited in his breaſt emotions of melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment, theſe emotions, he thought he heard a ſound of remote voices ſteal upon the ſtillneſs, from within the building, the front of which he again ſur⯑veyed with ſcrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was viſible. He now determined to walk round the fort, to that remote part of it, whence he thought the voices had ariſen, that he might examine whether any light could be diſcerned there, before he ventured to knock at the gate; for this purpoſe, he entered upon the terrace, where the re⯑mains of cannon were yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded many paces, when his ſteps were ſuddenly arreſted by the loud barking of a dog within, and which he fancied to be the ſame, whoſe voice had been the means of bringing [252] the travellers thither. It now appeared cer⯑tain, that the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to conſult again with St. Foix, whether he ſhould try to obtain ad⯑mittance, for its wild aſpect had ſomewhat ſhaken his former reſolution; but, after a ſecond conſultation, he ſubmitted to the con⯑ſiderations, which before determined him, and which were ſtrengthened by the diſco⯑very of the dog, that guarded the fort, as well as by the ſtillneſs that pervaded it. He, therefore, ordered one of his ſer⯑vants to knock at the gate, who was ad⯑vancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop-hole of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, receiving no anſwer, he went up to the gate himſelf, and ſtruck upon it with an iron-pointed pole, which had aſſiſted him to climb the ſteep. When the echoes had ceaſed, that this blow had awakened, the renewed barking,—and there were now more than one dog,—was the only ſound, that was heard. The Count ſtepped back, a few paces, to obſerve [253] whether the light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, he returned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to ſtrike again, when again he fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and pauſed to liſten. He was confirmed in the ſuppoſi⯑tion, but they were too remote, to be heard otherwiſe than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole fall heavily upon the gate; when almoſt immediately a profound ſilence followed. It was apparent, that the people within had heard the ſound, and their cau⯑tion in admitting ſtrangers gave him a favourable opinion of them. "They are either hunters or ſhepherds," ſaid he, "who, like ourſelves, have probably ſought ſhelter from the night within theſe walls, and are fearful of admitting ſtrangers, leſt they ſhould prove robbers. I will endea⯑vour to remove their fears." So ſaying, he called aloud, "We are friends, who aſk ſhelter from the night." In a few moments, ſteps were heard within, which approached, and a voice then enquired—"Who calls?" [254] "Friends," repeated the Count; "open the gates, and you ſhall know more."—Strong bolts were now heard to be un⯑drawn, and a man, armed with a hunting ſpear, appeared. "What is it you want at this hour?" ſaid he. The Count beck⯑oned his attendants, and then, anſwered, that he wiſhed to enquire the way to the neareſt cabin. "Are you ſo little acquainted with theſe mountains," ſaid the man, "as not to know, that there is none, within ſe⯑veral leagues? I cannot ſhew you the way; you muſt ſeek it—there's a moon." Saying this, he was cloſing the gate, and the Count was turning away, half diſappointed and half afraid, when another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he ſaw a light, and a man's face, at the grate of the portal. "Stay, friend, you have loſt your way?" ſaid the voice. "You are hunters, I ſuppoſe, like ourſelves: I will be with you preſently." The voice ceaſed, and the light diſappeared. Blanche had been alarm⯑ed by the appearance of the man, who had [255] opened the gate, and ſhe now entreated her father to quit the place; but the Count had obſerved the hunter's ſpear, which he carried; and the words from the tower en⯑couraged him to await the event. The gate was ſoon opened, and ſeveral men in hun⯑ters' habits, who had heard above what had paſſed below, appeared, and, having liſtened ſome time to the Count, told him he was welcome to reſt there for the night. They then preſſed him, with much courteſy, to enter, and to partake of ſuch fare as they were about to ſit down to. The Count, who had obſerved them attentively while they ſpoke, was cautious, and ſomewhat ſuſ⯑picious; but he was alſo weary, fearful of the approaching ſtorm, and of encountering alpine heights in the obſcurity of night; being likewiſe ſomewhat confident in the ſtrength and number of his attendants, he, after ſome further conſideration, determined to accept the invitation. With this reſo⯑lution he called his ſervants, who, advan⯑cing round the tower, behind which ſome of [256] them had ſilently liſtened to this conference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into the fortreſs. The ſtrangers led them on to a large and rude hall, par⯑tially ſeen by a fire, that blazed at its extre⯑mity, round which four men, in the hunter's dreſs, were ſeated, and on the hearth were ſeveral dogs ſtretched in ſleep. In the middle of the hall ſtood a large table, and over the fire ſome part of an animal was boiling. As the Count approached, the men aroſe, and the dogs, half raiſing themſelves, looked fiercely at the ſtrangers, but, on hearing their maſters' voices, kept their poſtures on the hearth.

Blanche looked round this gloomy and ſpa⯑cious hall; then at the men, and to her father, who, ſmiling cheerfully at her, addreſſed himſelf to the hunters. "This is an hoſpi⯑table hearth," ſaid he, "the blaze of a fire is reviving after having wandered ſo long in theſe dreary wilds. Your dogs are tired; what ſucceſs have you had?" "Such as we uſually have," replied one of the men, who [257] had been ſeated in the hall, "we kill our game with tolerable certainty." "Theſe are fellow hunters," ſaid one of the men who had brought the Count hither, "that have loſt their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us all." "Very true, very true," replied his companion, "What luck have you had in the chace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that, you will ſay, is pretty well." "You miſtake, friend," ſaid the Count, "we are not hunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to hunters' fare, we ſhall be well contented, and will repay your kindneſs." "Sit down then, brother," ſaid one of the men: "Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, the kid will ſoon be ready; bring a ſeat for the lady too. Ma'amſelle, will you taſte our brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowed from a keg." Blanche timidly ſmiled, and was going to refuſe, when her father prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glaſs offered to his daughter; and Monſ. St. Foix, who [258] was ſeated next her, preſſed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her at⯑tention was engaged by a man, who ſat ſilently by the fire, obſerving St. Foix, with a ſteady and earneſt eye.

"You lead a jolly life here," ſaid the Count. "The life of a hunter is a pleaſant and a healthy one; and the repoſe is ſweet, which ſucceeds to your labour."

"Yes," replied one of his hoſts, "our life is pleaſant enough. We live here only during the ſummer, and autumnal months; in winter, the place is dreary, and the ſwoln torrents, that deſcend from the heights, put a ſtop to the chace."

"'Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment," ſaid the Count: "I ſhould like to paſs a month in your way very well."

"We find employment for our guns too," ſaid a man who ſtood behind the Count:" here are plenty of birds, of deli⯑cious flavour, that feed upon the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the vallies. Now I think of it, there is a brace of bird's hung [259] up in the ſtone gallery; go fetch them, Jacques, we will have them dreſſed."

The Count now made enquiry, concern⯑ing the method of purſuing the chace among the rocks and precipices of theſe romantic regions, and was liſtening to a curious de⯑tail, when a horn was ſounded at the gate. Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converſe on the ſubjeſt of the chace, but whoſe countenance was ſomewhat expreſſive of anxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hall neareſt the gate. The horn founded again, and a loud halloo ſucceeded. "Theſe are ſome of our companions, returned from their day's labour," ſaid a man, going lazily from his ſeat towards the gate; and in a few mi⯑nutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his ſhoulder, and piſtols in his belt. "What cheer, my lads? what cheer?" ſaid they, as they approached. "What luck?" returned their companions: "have you brought home your ſupper? You ſhall have none elſe."

[260] "Hah! who the devil have you brought home?" ſaid they in bad Spaniſh, on per⯑ceiving the Count's party, "are they from France, or Spain?—where did you meet with them?"

"They met with us, and a merry meet⯑ing too," replied his companion aloud in good French. "This chevalier, and his party, had loſt their way, and aſked a night's lodging in the fort." The others made no reply, but threw down a kind of knapſack, and drew forth ſeveral brace of birds. The bag ſounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the glitter of ſome bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count, who now ſurveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the knapſack. He was a tall robuſt figure, of a hard countenance, and had ſhort black hair, curling in his neck. Inſtead of the hunter's dreſs, he wore a faded military uniform; ſandals were laced on his broad legs, and a kind of ſhort trowſers hung from his waiſt. On his head he wore a leathern cap, ſomewhat reſembling in [261] ſhape an ancient Roman helmet; but the brows that ſcowled beneath it, would have characterized thoſe of the barbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than thoſe of a Roman ſoldier. The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained ſilent and thoughtful, till, again raiſing them, he perceived a figure ſtanding in an obſcure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who was converſing with Blanche, and did not obſerve this; but the Count, ſoon after, ſaw the ſame man looking over the ſhoulder of the ſoldier as attentively at himſelf. He withdrew his eye, when that of the Count met it, who felt miſtruſt ga⯑thering faſt upon his mind, but feared to betray it in his countenance, and, forcing his features to aſſume a ſmile, addreſſed Blanche on ſome indifferent ſubject. When he again looked round, he perceived, that the ſoldier and his companion were gone.

The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the ſtone gallery. "A fire is lighted there," ſaid he, "and the birds are [262] dreſſing; the table too is ſpread there, for that place is warmer than this."

His companions approved of the removal, and invited their gueſts to follow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared diſ⯑treſſed, and remained ſeated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who ſaid, he pre⯑ferred the comfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters, however, commended the warmth of the other apart⯑ment, and preſſed his removal with ſuch ſeeming courteſy, that the Count, half doubting, and half fearful of betraying his doubts, conſented to go. The long and ruinous paſſages, through which they went, ſomewhat daunted him, but the thunder, which now burſt in loud peals above, made it dangerous to quit this place of ſhelter, and he forbore to provoke his conductors by ſhewing that he diſtruſted them. The hunters led the way, with a lamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wiſhed to pleaſe their hoſts by ſome inſtances of familiarity, carried each a ſeat, and Blanche followed, [263] with faltering ſteps. As ſhe paſſed on, part of her dreſs caught on a nail in the wall, and, while ſhe ſtopped, ſomewhat too ſcrupulouſly, to diſengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. Foix, and neither of whom obſerved the circumſtance, followed their conductor round an abrupt angle of the paſſage, and Blanche was left behind in darkneſs. The thunder prevented them from hearing her call, but, having diſen⯑gaged her dreſs, ſhe quickly followed, as ſhe thought, the way they had taken. A light, that glimmered at a diſtance, confirmed this belief, and ſhe proceeded towards an open door, whence it iſſued, conjecturing the room beyond to be the ſtone gallery the men had ſpoken of. Hearing voices as ſhe advanced, ſhe pauſed within a few paces of the chamber, that ſhe might be certain whether ſhe was right, and from thence, by the light of a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, obſerved four men, ſeated round a table, over which they leaned in apparent conſultation. In one of them ſhe diſtin⯑guiſhed [264] the features of him, whom ſhe had obſerved, gazing at St. Foix, with ſuch deep attention; and who was now ſpeaking in an earneſt, though reſtrained voice, till, one of his companions ſeeming to oppoſe him, they ſpoke together in a loud and harſher tone. Blanche, alarmed by perceiving, that neither her father, or St. Foix were there, and terrified at the fierce countenances and manners of theſe men, was turning haſ⯑tily from the chamber, to purſue her ſearch of the gallery, when ſhe heard one of the men ſay:

"Let all diſpute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice, and there will be none—ſecure them, and the reſt are an eaſy prey." Blanche, ſtruck with theſe words, pauſed a moment, to hear more. "There is nothing to be got by the reſt," ſaid one of his companions, "I am never for blood when I can help it—diſpatch the two others and our buſineſs is done; the reſt may go."

"May they ſo?" exclaimed the firſt ruffian, [265] with a tremendous oath—"What! To tell how we have diſpoſed of their maſters, and to ſend the king's troops to drag us to the wheel! You was always a choice ad⯑viſer—I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve laſt year."

Blanche's heart now ſunk with horror. Her firſt impulſe was to retreat from the door, but, when ſhe would have gone, her trembling frame refuſed to ſupport her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a more ob⯑ſcure part of the paſſage, ſhe was compelled to liſten to the dreadful councils of thoſe, who, ſhe was no longer ſuffered to doubt, were banditti. In the next moment, ſhe heard the following words, "Why you would not murder the whole gang?"

"I warrant our lives are as good as theirs," replied his comrade. "If we don't kill them, they will hang us: better they ſhould die than we be hanged."

"Better, better," cried his comrades.

"To commit murder, is a hopeful way of [264] [...] [265] [...] [266] of eſcaping the gallows!" ſaid the firſt ruffian—" many an honeſt fellow has run his head into the nooſe that way, though." There was a pauſe of ſome moments, dur⯑ing which they appeared to be conſidering.

"Confound thoſe fellows," exclaimed one of the robbers impatiently, "they ought to have been here by this time; they will come back preſently with the old ſtory, and no booty: if they were here, our buſi⯑neſs would be plain and eaſy. I ſee we ſhall not be able to do the buſineſs to⯑night, for our numbers are not equal to the enemy, and in the morning they will be for marching off, and how can we detain them without force?"

"I have been thinking of a ſcheme, that will do," ſaid one of his comrades: "if we can diſpatch the two chevaliers ſilently, it will be eaſy to maſter the reſt."

"That's a plauſible ſcheme, in good faith," ſaid another with a ſmile of ſcorn—"If I can eat my way through the priſon wall, I ſhall be at liberty!—How can we diſpatch them ſilently?"

[267] "By poiſon," replied his companions.

"Well ſaid! that will do," ſaid the ſe⯑cond ruffian, "that will give a lingering death too, and ſatisfy my revenge. Theſe barons ſhall take care how they again tempt our vengeance."

"I knew the ſon, the moment I ſaw him," ſaid the man, whom Blanche had ob⯑ſerved gazing on St. Foix, "though he does not know me; the father I had almoſt forgotten."

"Well, you may ſay what you will," ſaid the third ruffian, "but I don't believe he is the Baron, and I am as likely to know as any of you, for I was one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, that ſuffered."

"And was not I another?" ſaid the firſt ruffian, "I tell you he is the Baron; but what does it ſignify whether he is or not?—ſhall we let all this booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have ſuch luck as this. While we run the chance of the wheel for ſmuggling a few pounds of to⯑bacco, [268] to cheat the king's manufactory, and of breaking our necks down the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob a brother ſmuggler, or a ſtrag⯑gling pilgrim, of what ſcarcely repays us the powder we fire at them, ſhall we let ſuch a prize as this go? Why they have enough about them to keep us for—"

"I am not for that, I am not for that," replied the third robber, "let us make the moſt of them: only, if this is the Baron, I ſhould like to have a flaſh the more at him, for the ſake of our brave comrades, that he brought to the gallows."

"Aye, aye, ſlaſh as much as you will," rejoined the firſt man, "but I tell you the Baron is a taller man."

"Confound your quibbling," ſaid the ſecond ruffian, "ſhall we let them go or not? If we ſtay here much longer, they will take the hint, and march off without our leave. Let them be who they will, they are rich, or why all thoſe ſervants? Did you ſee the ring, he, you call the Baron, [269] had on his finger?—it was diamond; but he has not got it on now: he ſaw me look⯑ing at it, I warrant, and took it off."

"Aye, and then there is the picture; did you ſee that? She has not taken that off," obſerved the firſt ruffian, "it hangs at her neck; if it had not ſparkled ſo, I ſhould not have found it out, for it was almoſt hid by her dreſs; thoſe are diamonds too, and a rare many of them there muſt be, to go round ſuch a large picture."

"But how are we to manage this buſi⯑neſs?" ſaid the ſecond ruffian: "let us talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, but how are we to ſecure it?"

"Aye, aye," ſaid his comrades, "let us talk of that, and remember no time is to be loſt."

"I am ſtill for poiſon," obſerved the third, "but conſider their number; why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I ſaw ſo many at the gate, I was not [270] for letting them in, you know, nor you either."

"I thought they might be ſome of our enemies," replied the ſecond, "I did not ſo much mind numbers."

"But you muſt mind them now," re⯑joined his comrade, "or it will be worſe for you. We are not more than ſix, and how can we maſter ten by open force? I tell you we muſt give ſome of them a doſe, and the reſt may then be managed."

"I'll tell you a better way," rejoined the other impatiently, "draw cloſer."

Blanche, who had liſtened to this conver⯑ſation, in an agony, which it would be im⯑poſſible to deſcribe, could no longer diſtin⯑guiſh what was ſaid, for the ruffians now ſpoke in lowered voices; but the hope, that ſhe might ſave her friends from the plot, if ſhe could find her way quickly to them, ſuddenly re-animated her ſpirits, and lent her ſtrength enough to turn her ſteps in ſearch of the gallery. Terror, however, [271] and darkneſs conſpired againſt her, and, hav⯑ing moved a few yards, the feeble light, that iſſued from the chamber, no longer even contended with the gloom, and, her foot ſtumbling over a ſtep that croſſed the paſ⯑ſage, ſhe fell to the ground.

The noiſe ſtartled the banditti, who be⯑came ſuddenly ſilent, and then all ruſhed to the paſſage, to examine whether any perſon was there, who might have overheard their councils, Blanche ſaw them approaching, and perceived their fierce and eager looks: but, before ſhe could raiſe herſelf, they diſ⯑covered and ſeized her, and, as they dragged her towards the chamber they had quitted, her ſcreams drew from them horrible threat⯑enings.

Having reached the room, they began to conſult what they ſhould do with her. "Let us firſt know what ſhe has heard," ſaid the chief robber. "How long have you been in the paſſage, lady, and what brought you there?"

"Let us firſt ſecure that picture," ſaid [272] one of his comrades, approaching the trem⯑bling Blanche. "Fair lady, by your leave that picture is mine; come, ſurrender it, or I ſhall ſeize it."

Blanche, entreating their mercy, imme⯑diately gave up the miniature, while another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning what ſhe had overheard of their converſation, when, her confuſion and terror too plainly telling what her tongue feared to confeſs, the ruffians looked expreſſively upon one another, and two of them with⯑drew to a remote part of the room, as if to conſult further.

"Theſe are diamonds, by St. Peter!" exclaimed the fellow, who had been exa⯑mining the miniature, "and here is a very pretty picture too, faith; as handſome a young chevalier, as you would wiſh to ſee by a ſummer's ſun. Lady, this is your ſpouſe, I warrant, for it is the ſpark, that was in your company juſt now."

Blanche, ſinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and, delivering [273] him her purſe, promiſed to ſay nothing of what had paſſed, if he would ſuffer her to return to her friends.

He ſmiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his attention was called off by a diſtant noiſe; and, while he liſtened, he graſped the arm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared ſhe would eſcape from him, and ſhe again ſhrieked for help.

The approaching ſounds called the ruf⯑fians from the other part of the chamber. "We are betrayed," ſaid they; "but let us liſten a moment, perhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if ſo, our work is ſure; liſten!"

A diſtant diſcharge of ſhot confirmed this ſuppoſition for a moment, but, in the next, the former ſounds drawing nearer, the claſh⯑ing of ſwords, mingled with the voices of loud contention and with heavy groans, were diſtinguiſhed in the avenue leading to the chamber. While the ruffians prepared their arms, they heard themſelves called by ſome of their comrades afar off, and then a [274] ſhrill horn was ſounded without the for⯑treſs, a ſignal, it appeared, they too well un⯑derſtood; for three of them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care of the fourth, inſtantly ruſhed from the chamber.

While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was ſupplicating for releaſe, ſhe heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St. Foix, and ſhe had ſcarcely re⯑newed her ſhriek, when the door of the room was thrown open, and he appeared, much disfigured with blood, and purſued by ſe⯑veral ruffians. Blanche neither ſaw, or heard any more; her head ſwam, her ſight failed, and ſhe became ſenſeleſs in the arms of the robber, who had detained her.

When ſhe recovered, ſhe perceived, by the gloomy light, that trembled round her, that ſhe was in the ſame chamber, but neither the Count, St. Foix, or any other perſon appeared, and ſhe continued, for ſome time, entirely ſtill, and nearly in a ſtate of ſtupefaction. But, the dreadful images of the paſt returning, ſhe endea⯑voured [275] to raiſe herſelf, that ſhe might ſeek her friends, when a ſullen groan, at a little diſtance, reminded her of St. Foix, and of the condition, in which ſhe had ſeen him enter this room; then, ſtarting from the floor, by a ſudden effort of horror, ſhe ad⯑vanced to the place whence the ſound had proceeded, where a body was lying ſtretched upon the pavement, and where, by the glim⯑mering light of a lamp, ſhe diſcovered the pale and disfigured countenance of St. Foix. Her horrors at that moment, may be eaſily imagined. He was ſpeechleſs; his eyes were half cloſed, and, on the hand, which ſhe graſped in the agony of deſpair, cold damps had ſettled. While ſhe vainly re⯑peated his name, and called for aſſiſtance, ſteps approached, and a perſon entered the chamber, who, ſhe ſoon perceived, was not the Count, her father; but, what was her aſtoniſhment, when, ſupplicating him to give his aſſiſtance to St. Foix, ſhe diſ⯑covered Ludovico! He ſcarcely pauſed to recogniſe her, but immediately bound up [276] the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceive⯑ing, that he had fainted probably from loſs of blood, ran for water; but he had been abſent only a few moments, when Blanche heard other ſteps approaching, and, while ſhe was almoſt frantic with apprehen⯑ſion of the ruffians, the light of a torch flaſhed upon the walls, and then Count De Villefort appeared, with an affrighted coun⯑tenance, and breathleſs with impatience, calling upon his daughter. At the ſound of his voice, ſhe roſe, and ran to his arms, while he letting fall the bloody ſword he held, preſſed her to his boſom in a tranſport of gratitude and joy, and then haſtily en⯑quired for St. Foix, who now gave ſome ſigns of life. Ludovico ſoon after returning with water and brandy, the former was ap⯑plied to his lips, and the latter to his tem⯑ples and hands, and Blanche, at length, ſaw him uncloſe his eyes, and then heard him enquire for her; but the joy ſhe felt, on this occaſion, was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico ſaid it would be [277] neceſſary to remove Monſ. St. Foix imme⯑diately, and added, "The banditti, that are out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, and they will certainly find us, if we delay. That ſhrill horn, they know, is never ſounded by their comrades but on moſt deſperate occaſions, and it echoes among the mountains for many leagues round. I have known them brought home by its ſound even from the Pied de Meli⯑cant. Is any body ſtanding watch at the great gate, my Lord?"

"Nobody," replied the Count; "the reſt of my people are now ſcattered about, I ſcarcely know where. Go, Lu⯑dovico, collect them together, and look out yourſelf, and liſten if you hear the feet of mules."

Ludovico then hurried away, and the Count conſulted as to the means of re⯑moving St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, even if his ſtrength would have ſupported him in the ſaddle.

[278] While the Count was telling, that the ban⯑ditti, whom they had found in the fort, were ſecured in the dungeon, Blanche obſerved that he was himſelf wounded, and that his left arm was entirely uſeleſs; but he ſmiled at her anxiety, aſſuring her the wound was trifling.

The Count's ſervants, except two who kept watch at the gate, now appeared, and, ſoon after, Ludovico. "I think I hear mules coming along the glen, my Lord," ſaid he, "but the roaring of the torrent be⯑low will not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will ſerve the Chevalier," he added, ſhewing a bear's ſkin, faſtened to a couple of long poles, which had been adapted for the purpoſe of bringing home ſuch of the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovico ſpread it on the ground, and, placing the ſkins of ſeveral goats upon it, made a kind of bed, into which the Chevalier, who was however now much revived, was gently lifted; and, the poles being raiſed upon the ſhoulders of [279] the guides, whoſe footing among theſe ſteeps could beſt be depended upon, he was borne along with an eaſy motion. Some of the Count's ſervants were alſo wounded—but not materially, and, their wounds being bound up, they now followed to the great gate. As they paſſed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at ſome diſtance, and Blanche was terrified. "It is only thoſe villains in the dungeon, my Lady," ſaid Ludovico. "They ſeem to be burſting it open," ſaid the Count. "No, my Lord," replied Ludovico, "it has an iron door; we have nothing to fear from them; but let me go firſt, and look out from the rampart."

They quickly followed him, and found their mules browſing before the gates, where the party liſtened anxiously, but heard no ſound, except that of the torrent below and of the early breeze, ſighing among the branches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now glad to perceive the firſt tints of dawn over the mountain⯑tops. [280] When they had mounted their mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide, led them by an eaſier path, than that by which they had formerly aſcended, into the glen. "We muſt avoid that valley to the eaſt, my Lord," ſaid he, "or we may meet the banditti; they went out that way in the morning."

The travellers, ſoon after, quitted this glen, and found themſelves in a narrow valley that ſtretched towards the north-weſt. The morning light upon the mountains now ſtrengthened faſt, and gradually diſcovered the green hillocks, that ſkirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tufted with cork tree, and ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds being diſperſed, had left the ſky perfectly ſerene, and Blanche was revived by the freſh breeze, and by the view of verdure, which the late rain had brightened. Soon after, the ſun aroſe, when the dripping rocks, with, the ſhrubs. that fringed their ſummits, and many a turfy ſlope below, ſparkled in his rays. A wreath of miſt was ſeen, float⯑ing [281] along the extremity of the valley, but the gale bore it before the travellers, and the ſun-beams gradually drew it up towards the ſummit of the mountains. They had proceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having complained of extreme faintneſs, they ſtopped to give him refreſhment, and, that the men, who bore him, might reſt. Ludovico had brought from the fort ſome flaſks of rich Spaniſh wine, which now proved a reviving cordial not only to St. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it gave only temporary relief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his veins, and he could neither diſguiſe in his countenance the an⯑guiſh he ſuffered, or ſuppreſs the wiſh, that he was arrived at the inn, where they had deſigned to paſs the preceding night.

While they thus repoſed themſelves under the ſhade of the dark green pines, the Count deſired Ludovico to explain ſhortly, by what means he had diſappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands of the banditti, and how he had contributed [282] ſo eſſentially to ſerve him and his family, for to him he juſtly attributed their preſent deliverance. Ludovico was going to obey him, when ſuddenly they heard the echo of a piſtol-ſhot, from the way they had paſſed, and they roſe in alarm, haſtily to purſue their route.

CHAP. XIII.

EMILY, mean while, was ſtill ſuffering anxiety as to the fate of Valancourt; but Thereſa, having, at length, found a perſon, whom ſhe could entruſt on her errand to the ſteward, informed her, that the meſſenger would return on the following day; and Emily promiſed to be at the cottage, Thereſa being too lame to attend her.

In the evening, therefore, Emily ſet out alone for the cottage, with a melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom of the hour might con⯑tribute to depreſs her ſpirits. It was a grey autumnal evening towards the cloſe of the ſeaſon; heavy miſts partially obſcured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that ſigh⯑ed [284] among the beech woods, ſtrewed her path with ſome of their laſt yellow leaves. Theſe, circling in the blaſt and foretelling the death of the year, gave an image of deſola⯑tion to her mind, and, in her fancy, ſeemed to announce the death of Valancourt. Of this ſhe had, indeed, more than once ſo ſtrong a preſentiment, that ſhe was on the point of returning home, feeling herſelf un⯑equal to an encounter with the certainty ſhe anticipated, but, contending with her emo⯑tions, ſhe ſo far commanded them, as to be able to proceed.

While ſhe walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes, of vapour, that poured upon the ſky and watching the ſwallows, toſſed along the wind, now diſappearing among tempeſtuous clouds, and then emerg⯑ing, for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and viciſſitudes of her late life ſeemed pourtrayed in theſe fleeting images;—thus had ſhe been toſſed upon the ſtormy ſea of misfortune for the laſt year, with but ſhort intervals of peace, [285] if peace that could be called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when ſhe had eſcaped from ſo many dangers, was become independent of the will of thoſe, who had oppreſſed her, and found herſelf miſtreſs of a large fortune, now, when ſhe might reaſonably have expected happineſs, ſhe perceived that ſhe was as diſtant from it as ever. She would have accuſed herſelf of weakneſs and ingratitude in thus ſuffering a ſenſe of the various bleſſings ſhe poſſeſſed to be overcome by that of a ſingle misfortune, had this misfortune affected herſelf alone; but, when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, tears of compaſſion had mingled with thoſe of regret, and while ſhe lamented a human being degraded to vice, and conſequently to miſery, reaſon and hu⯑manity claimed theſe tears, and fortitude had not yet taught her to ſeparate them from thoſe of love; in the preſent moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but the apprehenſion of his death (of a death alſo, to which ſhe herſelf, how⯑ever [286] innocently, appeared to have been in ſome degree inſtrumental) that oppreſſed her. This fear increaſed, as the means of certainty concerning it approached; and, when ſhe came within view of Thereſa's cottage, ſhe was ſo much diſordered, and her reſolution failed her ſo entirely, that, unable to proceed, ſhe reſted on a bank, beſide her path; where, as ſhe fat, the wind that groaned ſullenly among the lofty branches above, ſeemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the founds of diſtant la⯑mentation, and, in the pauſes of the guſt, ſhe ſtill fancied ſhe heard the feeble and far-off notes of diſtreſs. Attention convinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increaſing gloom, which ſeemed the ſud⯑den cloſe of day, ſoon warned her to depart, and, with faltering ſteps, ſhe again moved toward the cottage. Through the caſement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Thereſa, who had obſerved Emily ap⯑proaching, was already at the door to re⯑ceive her.

[287] "It is a cold evening, madam," ſaid ſhe, "ſtorms are coming on, and I thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth."

Emily, thanking her for this conſideration, ſat down, and then, looking in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, ſhe was ſtruck with its expreſſion, and, unable to ſpeak, ſunk back in her chair with a countenance ſo full of woe, that Thereſa inſtantly comprehended the occaſion of it, but ſhe remained ſilent. "Ah!" ſaid Emi⯑ly, at length, "it is unneceſſary for me to aſk the reſult of your enquiry, your ſilence, and that look, ſufficiently explain it;—he is dead!"

"Alas! my dear young lady," replied Thereſa, while tears filled her eyes, "this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their ſhare as well as the poor! But we muſt all endeavour to bear what Heaven pleaſes."

"He is dead then!"—interrupted Emily—"Valancourt is dead!"

[288] "A-well-a-day! I fear he is," replied Thereſa.

"You fear!" ſaid Emily, "do you only fear?"

"Alas! yes, Madam, I fear he is! neither the ſteward, or any of the Epourville family, have heard of him ſince he left Languedoc, and the Count is in great afflic⯑tion about him, for he ſays he was always punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him, ſince he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago, but he has neither come, or written, and they fear ſome accident has befallen him. Alas! that ever I ſhould live to cry for his death! I am old, and might have died without being miſſed, but he"—Emily was faint, and aſked for ſome water, and Thereſa, alarmed by the voice, in which ſhe ſpoke, haſtened to her aſſiſtance, and, while ſhe held the water to Emily's lips, continued, "My dear young miſtreſs do not take it ſo to heart; the [289] Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope the beſt!"

"O no! I cannot hope," ſaid Emily, "I am acquainted with circumſtances, that will not ſuffer me to hope. I am ſome⯑what better now, and can hear what you have to ſay. Tell me, I entreat, the parti⯑culars of what you know."

"Stay till you are a little better, made-moiſelle, you look ſadly!"

"O no, Thereſa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it," ſaid Emily, "tell me all, I conjure you!"

"Well, madam, I will then; but the ſteward did not ſay much, for Richard ſays he ſeemed ſhy of talking about Monſ. Va⯑lancourt, and what he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the ſervants, who ſaid he had heard it from my lord's gentleman."

"What did he hear?" said Emily.

"Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half of it, and, if I had not aſked him a great many queſtions, I ſhould have; heard little [290] indeed. But he says that Gabriel ſaid, that he and all the other ſervants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that he was ſuch a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if he had been their own brother—and now, to think what was become of him! For he uſed to be ſo courteous to them all, and, if any of them had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the firſt to perſuade my lord to forgive them. And then, if any poor family was in diſtreſs, M. Valancourt was the firſt, too, to relieve them, though ſome folks, not a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And then, ſaid Ga⯑briel, he was ſo gentle to every body, and, for all he had ſuch a noble look with him, he never would command, and call about him, as ſome of your quality people do, and we never minded him the leſs for that. Nay, ſays Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to obey him at a word, ſooner than if ſome folks had told us what to do at full [291] length; aye, and were more afraid of diſ⯑pleaſing him, too, than of them, that uſed rough words to us."

Emily, who no longer conſidered it to be dangerous to Men to praiſe, beſtowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Thereſa, but ſat, attentive to her words, though almoſt overwhelmed with grief. "My Lord," continued Thereſa, "frets about M. Valancourt ſadly, and the more, becauſe, they ſay, he had been rather harſh againſt him lately. Gabriel ſays he had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourt had comported himſelf wildly at Paris, and had ſpent a great deal of money, more a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better than M. Valancourt, who had been led aſtray ſadly. Nay, for that mat⯑ter, M. Valancourt had been put into pri⯑ſon at Paris, and my Lord, ſays Gabriel, refuſed to take him out, and ſaid he de⯑ſerved to ſuffer; and, when old Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-ſtick to take with him to Paris, [292] to viſit his young maſter; but the next thing we hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful day when he came; but he was ſadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool upon him, and he was very ſad, indeed. And, ſoon after, he went away again into Languedoc, and, ſince that time, we have never ſeen him."

Thereſa pauſed, and Emily, ſighing deep⯑ly, remained with her eyes fixed upon the floor, without ſpeaking. After a long pauſe, ſhe enquired what further Thereſa had heard. "Yet why ſhould I aſk?" ſhe added; "what you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone—forever gone! and I—I have murdered thee!" Theſe words, and the countenance of deſpair which accompanied them, alarmed Thereſa, who began to fear, that the ſhock of the intelligence Emily had juſt received, had affected her ſenſes. "My dear young lady, be compoſed," ſaid ſhe, "and do not ſay ſuch frightful words. You murder [293] M. Valancourt,—dear heart!" Emily re⯑plied only by a heavy ſigh.

"Dear lady, it breaks my heart to ſee you look ſo," ſaid Thereſa, "do not ſit with your eyes upon the ground, and all ſo pale and melancholy; it frightens me to ſee you." Emily was ſtill ſilent, and did, not appear to hear any thing that was ſaid to her. "Beſides, mademoiſelle," con⯑tinued. Thereſa, "M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what we know."

At the mention of his name, Emily raiſed her eyes, and fixed them, in a wild gaze, upon Thereſa, as if ſhe was endea⯑vouring to underſtand what had been ſaid. "Aye, my dear lady," ſaid Thereſa, miſ⯑taking the meaning of this conſiderate air, "M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet."

On the repetition of theſe words, Emily comprehended their import, but, inſtead of producing the effect intended, they ſeemed only to heighten her diſtreſs. She roſe haſ⯑tily from her chair, paced the little room, [294] with quick ſteps, and, often ſighing deep⯑ly, claſped her hands, and ſhuddered.

Meanwhile, Thereſa, with ſimple, but honeſt affection, endeavoured to comfort her; put more wood on the fire, ſtirred it up into a brighter blaze, ſwept the hearth, ſet the chair, which Emily had left, in a warmer ſituation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flaſk of wine. "It is a ſtormy night, madam," ſaid ſhe, "and blows cold—do come nearer the fire, and take a glaſs of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has done me, often and often, for it is not ſuch wine as one gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, and the laſt of ſix flaſks that M. Valancourt ſent me, the night before he left Gaſcony for Paris. They have ſerved me, ever ſince, as cor⯑dials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, and what kind words he ſaid to me when he gave them. Thereſa, ſays he, you are not young now, and ſhould have a glaſs of good wine, now and then. I will ſend you a few flaſks, and, when you taste them, [295] you will ſometimes remember me your friend. Yes—thoſe were his very words—me your friend!" Emily ſtill paced the room, without feeming to hear what The⯑reſa ſaid, who continued ſpeaking. "And I have remembered him, often enough, poor young gentleman!—for he gave me this roof for a ſhelter, and that, which has ſupported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my bleſſed matter, if ever saint was!"

Thereſa's voice faltered; ſhe wept, and ſet down the flaſk, unable to pour out the wine. Her grief ſeemed to recall Emily from her own, who went towards her, but then ſtopped, and, having gazed on her, for a moment, turned ſuddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that it was Valancourt, whom Thereſa lamented.

While ſhe yet paced the room, the ſtill, ſoft note of an oboe, or flute, was heard min⯑gling with the blaſt, the ſweetneſs of which affected Emily's ſpirits; ſhe pauſed a mo⯑ment in attention; the tender tones, as they ſwelled along the wind, till they were [296] loſt again in the ruder guſt, came with a plaintiveneſs, that touched her heart, and the melted into tears.

"Aye," ſaid Thereſa, drying her eyes, "there is Richard, our neighbour's ſon, playing on the oboe; it is ſad enough, to hear ſuch ſweet muſic now." Emily con⯑tinued to weep, without replying. "He often plays of an evening," added Thereſa, "and, ſometimes, the young folks dance to the ſound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry ſo; and pray take a glaſs of this wine," continued ſhe, pouring ſome into a glaſs, and handing it to Emily, who reluc⯑tantly took it.

"Taſte it for M. Valancourt's ſake," ſaid Thereſa, as Emily lifted the glaſs to her lips, "for he gave it me, you know, madam." Emily's hand trembled, and ſhe ſpilt the wine as ſhe withdrew it from her lips. "For whoſe ſake!—who gave the wine?" ſaid ſhe in a faltering voice. "M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleaſed with it. It is the laſt flaſk I have left."

[297] Emily ſet the wine upon the table, and burſt into tears, while Thereſa, diſappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but ſhe only waved her hand, entreated ſhe might be left alone, and wept the more.

A knock at the cottage door prevented Thereſa from immediately obeying her miſ⯑treſs, and ſhe was going to open it, when Emily, checking her, requeſted ſhe would not admit any perſon; but, afterwards, recol⯑lecting, that ſhe had ordered her ſervant to attend her home, ſhe ſaid it was only Phi⯑lippe, and endeavoured to reſtrain her tears, while Thereſa opened the door.

A voice, that ſpoke without, drew Emi⯑ly's attention. She liſtened, turned her eyes to the door, when a perſon now appeared, and immediately a bright gleam, that flaſhed from the fire, diſcovered—Valancourt!

Emily, on perceiving him, ſtarted from her chair, trembled, and, ſinking into it again, became inſenſible to all around her.

A ſcream from Thereſa now told, that ſhe knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect ſight, [298] and the duſkineſs of the place had prevented her from immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from her to the perſon, whom he ſaw, falling from a chair near the fire; and, haſtening to her aſſiſtance,—he perceived, that he was ſup⯑porting Emily! The various emotions, that ſeized him upon thus unexpectedly meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever, and on beholding her pale and lifeleſs in his arms—may, per⯑haps, be imagined, though they could nei⯑ther be then expreſſed, or now deſcribed, any more than Emily's ſenſations, when, at length, ſhe uncloſed her eyes, and, looking up, again ſaw Valancourt. The intenſe an⯑xiety, with which he regarded her, was in⯑ſtantly changed to an expreſſion of mingled joy and tenderneſs, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that ſhe was reviving. But he could only exclaim, "Emily!" as he ſilently watched her recovery, while ſhe averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; but, in theſe the firſt [299] moments, which ſucceeded to the pangs his ſuppoſed death had occaſioned her, ſhe forgot every fault, which had formerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valan⯑court ſuch as he appeared, when he won her early affection, ſhe experienced emotions of only tenderneſs and joy▪ This, alas! was but the ſunſhine of a few ſhort moments; recollections roſe, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening the illuſive image, that poſſeſſed it, ſhe again beheld Valan⯑court, degraded—Valancourt unworthy of the eſteem and tenderneſs ſhe had once be⯑ſtowed upon him; her ſpirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, ſhe turned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarraſſed and agitated, remained ſilent.

A ſenſe of what ſhe owed to herſelf re⯑ſtrained her tears, and taught her ſoon to overcome, in ſome degree, the emotions of mingled joy and ſorrow, that contended at her heart, as ſhe roſe, and, having thanked him for the aſſiſtance he had given her, bade [300] Thereſa good evening. As ſhe was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who ſeemed ſud⯑denly awakened as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for com⯑paſſion, a few moments attention. Emily's heart, perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but ſhe had reſolution enough to reſiſt both, together with the clamorous entreaties of Thereſa, that ſhe would not venture home alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the pelting ſtorm compelled her to obey their requeſts.

Silent and embarraſſed, ſhe returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with increaſing agitation, paced the room, as if he wiſhed, yet feared, to ſpeak, and Thereſa expreſſed without reſtraint her joy and wonder upon ſeeing him.

"Dear heart! ſir," ſaid ſhe, "I never was ſo ſurpriſed and overjoyed in my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought you was dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, juſt when you knocked at the door. My young [301] miſtreſs there was crying, fit to break her heart—"

Emily looked with much diſpleaſure at Thereſa, but, before ſhe could ſpeak, Va⯑lancourt, unable to repreſs the emotion, which Thereſa's imprudent diſcovery occa⯑ſioned, exclaimed, "O my Emily! am I then ſtill dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought—a tear? O heavens! you weep—you weep now!"

"Thereſa, ſir," ſaid Emily, with a re⯑ſerved air, and trying to conquer her tears, "has reaſon to remember you with grati⯑tude, and ſhe was concerned, becauſe ſhe had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank you for the kindneſs you have ſhewn her, and to ſay, that, ſince I am now upon the ſpot, ſhe muſt not be further indebted to you."

"Emily!" ſaid Valancourt, no longer maſter of his emotions, "is it thus you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand—thus you meet him, who has loved you—ſuffered for you?—Yet what [302] do I ſay? Pardon me, pardon me, made⯑moiſelle St. Aubert, I know not what I ut⯑ter. I have no longer any claim upon your Remembrance—I have forfeited every pre⯑tenſion to your eſteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I once poſſeſſed your affections, though to know that I have loſt them, is my ſevereſt affiction. Affliction—do I call it!—that is a term of mildneſs."

"Dear heart!" ſaid Thereſa, preventing Emily from replying, "talk of once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now, better than ſhe does any body in the whole world, though ſhe pre⯑tends to deny it."

"This is inſupportable!" ſaid Emily; "Thereſa, you know not what you ſay. Sir, if you reſpect my tranquillity, you will ſpare me from the continuance of this diſtreſs."

"I do reſpect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it," replied Valan⯑court, in whoſe boſom pride now contended with tenderneſs; "and will not be a volun⯑tary intruder. I would have entreated a few [303] moments attention—yet I know not for what purpoſe. You have ceaſed to eſteem me, and to recount to you my ſufferings will degrade me more, without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed very wretched!" added Valan⯑court, in a voice, that ſoftened from ſolem⯑nity into grief.

"What! is my dear young maſter going out in all this rain!" ſaid Thereſa. "No, he ſhall not ſtir a ſtep. Dear! dear! to fee how gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happineſs! Now, if you were poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthineſs, and not caring about one another, when I know there are not ſuch a kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love one another half ſo well, if the truth was ſpoken!"

Emily, in extreme vexation, now roſe from her chair, "I muſt be gone," ſaid ſhe, "the ſtorm is over."

"Stay, Emily, ſtay, mademoiſelle St. Au⯑bert!" [304] ſaid Valancourt, ſummoning all his reſolution, "I will no longer diſtreſs you by my preſence. Forgive me, that I did not ſooner obey you, and, if you can, ſome⯑times, pity one, who, in loſing you—has loſt all hope of peace! May you be happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondeſt wiſh would have you!"

His voice faltered with the laſt words, and his countenance changed, while, with a look of ineffable tenderneſs and grief, he gazed upon her for an inſtant, and then quitted the cottage.

"Dear heart! dear heart!" cried The⯑reſa, following him to the door, "why, Monſieur Valancourt! how it rains! What a night is this to turn him out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you was crying, mademoiſelle, becauſe he was dead. Well! young ladies do change their mind in a minute, as one may ſay!"

Emily made no reply, for ſhe heard not what was ſaid, while, loſt in ſorrow and thought, ſhe remained in her chair by the [305] fire, with her eyes fixed, and the image of Valancourt ſtill before them.

"M. Valancourt is ſadly altered! Ma⯑dam," ſaid Thereſa; "he looks ſo thin to what he uſed to do, and ſo melancholy, and then he wears his arm in a ſling."

Emily raiſed her eyes at theſe words, for ſhe had not obſerved this laſt circumſtance, and ſhe now did not doubt, that Valancourt had received the ſhot of her gardener at Tho⯑louſe; with this conviction her pity for him returning, ſhe blamed herſelf for having oc⯑caſioned him to leave the cottage, during the ſtorm.

Soon after her ſervants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having cenſured The⯑reſa for her thoughtleſs converſation to Va⯑lancourt, and ſtrictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the ſame kind to him, withdrew to her home, thoughtful and diſ⯑conſolate.

Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village, whither he had arrived only a few moments before his viſit to Thereſa's cottage, on the way [306] from Tholouſe to the chateau of the Count de Duvarney, where he had not been ſince he bade adieu to Emily at Chateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a conſiderable time, un⯑able to ſummon reſolution enough to quit a place, that contained the object moſt dear to his heart. There were times, in⯑deed, when grief and deſpair urged him to appear again before Emily, and, regard⯑leſs of his ruined circumſtances, to renew his ſuit. Pride, however, and the tenderneſs of his affection, which could not long en⯑dure the thought of involving her in his miſ⯑fortunes, at length, ſo far triumphed over paſſion, that he relinquiſhed this deſperate deſign, and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But ſtill his fancy wandered among the ſcenes, which had witneſſed his early love, and, on his way to Gaſcony, he ſtopped at Tholouſe, where he remained when Emily arrived, con⯑cealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had formerly paſſed with her ſo many happy hours; often recurring, with [307] vain regret, to the evening before her de⯑parture for Italy, when ſhe had ſo unex⯑pectedly met him on the terrace, and endea⯑vouring to recall to his memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the arguments he had employed to diſſuade her from the journey, and the tenderneſs of their laſt farewel. In ſuch melancholy recollec⯑tions he had been indulging, when Emily unexpectedly appeared to him on this very terrace, the evening after her arrival at Tho⯑louſe. His emotions, on thus ſeeing her, can ſcarcely be imagined; but he ſo far overcame the firſt promptings of love, that he forbore to diſcover himſelf, and abruptly quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vi⯑ſion he had ſeen haunted his mind; he be⯑came more wretched than before, and the only ſolace of his ſorrow was to return in the ſilence or the night; to follow the paths which he believed her ſteps had preſſ⯑ed, during the day; and, to watch round the habitation where ſhe repoſed. It was in one of theſe mournful wanderings, [308] that he had received by the fire of the gardener, who miſtook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained him at Tholouſe till very lately, under the hands of a ſurgeon. There, regardleſs of himſelf and careleſs of his friends, whoſe late unkindneſs had urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of his ſituation; and now, being ſufficiently reco⯑vered to bear traveling, he had taken La Vallée in his way to Eſtuviere, the Count's reſidence, partly for the purpoſe of hearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that of enquiring into the ſituation of poor old Thereſa, who, he had reaſon to ſuppoſe, had been deprived of her ſtipend, ſmall as it was, and which enquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.

This unexpected interview, which had at once ſhewn him the tenderneſs of her love and the ſtrength of her reſolution, renewed all the acuteneſs of the deſpair, that had at⯑tended [309] their former ſeparation, and which no effort of reaſon could teach him, in theſe moments, to ſubdue. Her image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as powerfully as they had lately ap⯑peared to his ſenſes, and baniſhed from his heart every emotion, except thoſe of love and deſpair.

Before the evening concluded, he returned to Thereſa's cottage, that he might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where ſhe had ſo lately been. The joy, felt and expreſſed by that faithful ſervant, was quickly changed to ſorrow, when ſhe ob⯑ſerved, at one moment, his wild and phren⯑ſied look, and, at another, the dark melan⯑choly, that overhung him.

After he had liſtened, and for a conſi⯑derable time, to all ſhe had to relate, con⯑cerning Emily, he gave Thereſa nearly all the money he had about him, though ſhe repeatedly refuſed it, declaring, that her miſtreſs had amply ſupplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of value from his ſin⯑ger, [310] he delivered it her with a ſolemn charge to preſent it to Emily, of whom he entreat⯑ed, as a laſt favour, that ſhe would pre⯑ſerve it for his ſake, and ſometimes, when ſhe looked upon it, remember the unhappy giver.

Thereſa wept, as ſhe received the ring, but it was more from ſympathy, than from any preſentiment of evil; and before ſhe could reply, Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door, calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but ſhe received no anſwer, and ſaw him no more.

CHAP. XIV.

On the following morning, as Emily ſat in the parlour adjoining the library, reflect⯑ing on the ſcene of the preceding night, Annette ruſhed wildly into the room, and, without ſpeaking, ſunk breathleſs into a chair. It was ſome time before ſhe could anſwer the anxious enquiries of Emily, as to the occaſion of her emotion, but, at length, ſhe exclaimed, "I have ſeen his ghoſt, ma⯑dam, I have ſeen his ghoſt!"

"Who do you mean?" ſaid Emily, with extreme impatience.

"It came, in from the hall, madam," con⯑tinued Annette, "as I was croſſing to the parlour."

"Who are you ſpeaking of?" repeated Emily, "Who came in from the hall?"

[312] "It was dreſſed juſt as I have ſeen him, often and often," added Annette. "Ah! who could have thought—"

Emily's patience was now exhauſted, and ſhe was reprimanding her for ſuch idle fancies, when a ſervant entered the room, and informed her, that a ſtranger without begged leave to ſpeak with her.

It immediately occurred to Emily, that this ſtranger was Valancourt, and ſhe told the ſervant to inform him, that ſhe was en⯑gaged, and could not ſee any perſon.

The ſervant, having delivered his meſſage, returned with one from the ſtranger, urging the firſt requeſt, and ſaying, that he had ſomething of conſequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto ſat▪ ſilent and amazed, now ſtarted up, and crying, "It is Ludovico!—it is Ludovico!" ran out of the room. Emily bade the ſervant follow her, and, if it really was Ludovico, to ſhew him into the parlour.

In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, ac⯑companied by Annette, who, as joy rendered [313] her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her miſtreſs, would not ſuffer any perſon to be heard, for ſome time, but herſelf. Emily expreſſed ſurpriſe and ſatisfaction, on ſeeing Ludovico in ſafety, and the firſt emotions increaſed, when he delivered letters from Count De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing her of their late adventure, and of their preſent ſituation at an inn among the Pyrenées, where they had been detained by the illneſs of Monſ. St. Foix, and the indiſ⯑poſition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St. Foix was juſt arrived to attend his ſon to his chateau, where he would re⯑main till the perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but that her father and herſelf purpoſed to be at La Vallée, on the following day. She added, that Emily's preſence would be expected at the approaching nuptials, and begged ſhe would be prepared to proceed, in a few days, to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico's adventure, ſhe referred her to himſelf; and Emily, though much inter⯑eſted, [314] concerning the means, by which he had diſappeared from the north apartments, had the forbearance to ſuſpend the gratifi⯑cation of her curioſity, till he had taken ſome refreſhment, and had converſed with Annette, whoſe joy, on ſeeing him in ſafety, could not have been more extravagant, had he ariſen from the grave.

Meanwhile, Emily peruſed again the let⯑ters of her friends, whoſe expreſſions of eſ⯑teem and kindneſs were very neceſſary con⯑ſolations to her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions of keener ſorrow and regret.

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was preſſed with ſo much kindneſs by the Count and his daughter, who ſtrengthened it by a meſſage from the Counteſs, and the occa⯑ſion of it was ſo important to her friend, that Emily could not refuſe to accept it, nor, though ſhe wiſhed to remain in the quiet ſhades of her native home, could ſhe avoid perceiving the impropriety of remain⯑ing there alone, ſince Valancourt was again [315] in the neighbourhood. Sometimes, too, ſhw thought, that change of ſcenery and the ſo⯑ciety of her friends might contribute, more than retirement, to reſtore her to tranquil⯑lity.

When Ludovico again appeared, ſhe de⯑ſired him to give a detail of his adventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he became a companion of the ban⯑ditti, with whom the Count had found him.

He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leiſure to aſk him many queſtions, on the ſubject, prepared to liſten, with a countenance of extreme cu⯑rioſity, venturing to remind her lady of her incredulity, concerning ſpirits, in the caſtle of Udolpho, and of her own ſagacity in believing in them; while Emily, bluſhing at the conſciouſneſs of her late credulity, obſerved, that, if Ludovico's adventure could juſtify Annette's ſupperſtition, he had probably not been, here to relate it.

Ludovico ſmiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as follows:

[316] "You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I ſat up in the north cham⯑ber, my lord, the Count, and Monſ. Henri accompanied me thither, and that, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm. When they were gone I made a fire in the bed-room, and, not being inclined to ſleep, I ſat down on the hearth with a book I had brought with me to di⯑vert my mind. I confeſs I did ſometimes look round the chamber, with ſomething like apprehenſion—"

"O very like it, I dare ſay," interrupted Annette, "and I dare ſay too, if the truth was known, you ſhook from head to foot."

"Not quite ſo bad as that," replied Lu⯑dovico, ſmiling, "but ſeveral times, as the wind whiſtled round the caſtle, and ſhook the old caſements, I did fancy I heard odd noiſes, and, once or twice, I got up and looked about me; but nothing was to be ſeen, except the grim figures in the tapeſtry, which ſeemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them. I had fat thus for above [317] an hour," continued Ludovico, "when again I thought I heard a noiſe, and glanced my eyes round the room, to diſcover what it came from, but, not perceiving any thing, I began to read again, and, when I had finiſhed the ſtory I was upon, I felt drowſy, and dropped aſleep. But preſently I was awakened by the noiſe I had heard before, and it ſeemed to come from that part of the chamber, where the bed ſtood; and then, whether it was the ſtory I had been reading that affected my ſpirits, or the ſtrange re⯑ports, that had been ſpread of theſe apart⯑ments, I don't know, but, when I looked towards the bed again, I fancied I ſaw a man's face within the duſky curtains."

At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiouſly, remembering the ſpectacle ſhe had herſelf witneſſed there with Dorothée.

"I confeſs, madam, my heart did fail me, at that inſtant," continued Ludovico, "but a return of the noiſe drew my atten⯑tion [318] from the bed, and I then diſtinctly heard a ſound, like that of a key, turning in a lock, but what ſurpriſed me more was, that I ſaw no door where the ſound ſeemed to come from. In the next moment, how⯑ever, the arras near the bed was ſlowly lifted, and a perſon appeared behind it, en⯑tering from a ſmall door in the wall. He ſtood for a moment as if half retreating, with his head bending under the arras which concealed the upper part of his face except his eyes ſcowling beneath the tapeſtry as he held it; and then, while he raiſed it higher, I ſaw the face of another man behind, look⯑ing over his ſhoulder. I know not how it was, but, though my ſword was upon the table before me, I had not the power juſt then to ſeize it, but ſat quite ſtill, watching them, with my eyes half ſhut as if I was aſleep. I ſuppoſe they thought me ſo, and were debating what they ſhould do, for I heard them whiſper, and they ſtood in the ſame poſture for the value of a minute, and [319] then, I thought I perceived other faces in the duſkineſs beyond the door, and heard louder whiſpers."

"This door ſurprifes me," ſaid Emily, "becauſe I underſtood, that the Count had cauſed the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined, ſuſpecting, that they might have concealed a paſſage through which you had departed."

"It does not appear ſo extraordinary to me, madam," replied Ludovico, "that this door ſhould eſcape notice, becauſe it was formed in a narrow compartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if the Count had not paſſed over it, he might have thought it was uſeleſs to ſearch for a door where it ſeemed as if no paſſage could communicate, with one; but the truth was, that the paſſage was formed within the wall itſelf.—But, to return to the men, whom I ſaw obſcurely beyond the door, and who did not ſuffer me to re⯑main long in ſuſpenſe, concerning their de⯑ſign. They all ruſhed into the room, and [320] ſurrounded me, though not before I had ſnatched up my ſword to defend myſelf. But what could one man do againſt four? They ſoon diſarmed me, and, having faſt⯑ened my arms, and gagged my mouth, forced me through the private door, leav⯑ing my ſword upon the table, to aſſiſt, as they ſaid, thoſe who ſhould come in the morning to look for me, in fighting againſt the ghoſts. They then led me through many narrow paſſages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls, for I had never ſeen them be⯑fore, and down ſeveral flights of ſteps, till we came to the vaults underneath the caſ⯑tle; and then opening a ſtone door, which I ſhould have taken for the wall itſelf, we went through a long paſſage, and down other ſteps cut in the ſolid rock, when another door delivered us into a cave. Af⯑ter turning and twining about, for ſome time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myſelf on the ſea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau above. A boat was in waiting, into which the ruſ⯑ſians [321] got, forcing me along with them, and we ſoon reached a ſmall veſſel, that was at anchor, where other men appeared, when ſetting me aboard, two of the fellows who had ſeized me, followed, and the other two rowed back to the ſhore, while we ſet fail. I ſoon found out what all this meant, and what was the buſineſs of theſe men at the chateau. We landed in Rouſillon, and, after lingering ſeveral days about the ſhore, ſome of their comrades came down from the mountains, and carried me with them to the fort, where I remained till my Lord ſo unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to prevent my running away, having blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if they had not done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town, through the wild country we tra⯑verſed. After I reached the fort I was watched like a priſoner, and never ſuffered to go out, without two or three compa⯑nions, and I became ſo weary of life, that I often wiſhed to get rid of it."

[322] "Well, but they let you talk," ſaid An⯑nette, "they did not gagg you after they got you away from the chateau, ſo I don't ſee what reaſon there was to be ſo very weary of living; to ſay nothing about the chance you had of feeing me again."

Ludovico ſmiled, and Emily alſo, who enquired what was the motive of theſe men for carrying him off.

"I ſoon found out, madam," reſumed Lu⯑dovico, "that they were pirates, who had, during many years, ſecreted their ſpoil in the vaults of the caſtle, which, being ſo near the ſea, ſuited their purpoſe well. To prevent detection they had tried to have it believed, that the chateau was haunted, and, having diſcovered the private way to the north apartments, which had been ſhut up ever ſince the death of the lady mar⯑chioneſs, they eaſily ſucceeded. The houſe-keeper and her huſband, who were the only perſons, that had inhabited the caſtle, for ſome years, were ſo terrified by the ſtrange noiſes they heard in the nights, that [323] they would live there no longer; a report ſoon went abroad, that it was haunted, and the whole country believed this the more readily, I ſuppoſe, becauſe it had been ſaid, that the lady marchioneſs had died in a ſtrange way, and becauſe my lord never would return to the place afterwards."

"But why," ſaid Emily, "were not theſe pirates contented with the cave—why did they think it neceſſary to depoſit their ſpoil in the caſtle?"

"The cave, madam," replied Ludovico, "was open to any body, and their treaſures would not long have remained undiſcovered there, but in the vaults they were ſecure ſo long as the report prevailed of their being haunted. Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, the ſpoil they took on the ſeas, and kept it till they had oppor⯑tunities of diſpoſing of it to advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish ſmugglers and banditti, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenées, and carry on various kinds of traffic, ſuch as nobody would think [324] of; and with this deſperate horde of ban⯑ditti I remained, till my lord arrived. I ſhall never forget what I felt, when I firſt diſ⯑covered him—I almoſt gave him up for loſt! but I knew, that, if I ſhewed myſelf, the banditti would diſcover who he was, and probably murder us all, to prevent their ſecret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept out of my lord's ſight, but had a ſtrict watch upon the ruſſians, and determined, if they offered him or his fa⯑mily violence, to diſcover myſelf, and fight for our lives. Soon after, I overheard ſome of them laying a moſt diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I contrived to ſpeak to ſome of my lord's attendants, telling them what was going forward, and we conſulted what was beſt to be done; meanwhile my lord, alarmed at the abſence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, and the ruſſians having given ſome unſatisfactory anſwer, my lord and Monſ. St. Foix became furious, ſo then we thought it a good time to diſcover [325] the plot, and ruſhing into the chamber, I called out "Treachery! my lord count, de⯑fend yourſelf!" His lordſhip and the chevalier drew their ſwords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we conquered at laſt, as, madam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count."

"This is an extraordinary adventure," ſaid Emily, and much praiſe is due, Ludo⯑vico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are ſome cifcumſtances, however, concerning the north apartments, which ſtill perplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you ever hear the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of theſe rooms."

"No, madam," replied Ludovico, "I never heard them ſpeak about the rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old houſekeeper, who once was very near catch⯑ing one of the pirates; it was ſince the Count arrived at the chateau, he ſaid, and he laughed heartily as he related the trick he had played off."

[326] A bluſh overſpread Emily's cheek, and ſhe impatiently deſired Ludovico to ex⯑plain himſelf.

"Why, my lady," ſaid he, "as this fellow was, one night in the bed-room, he heard ſomebody approaching through the next apartment, and not having time to lift up the arras, and unfaſten the door, he hid himſelf in the bed juſt by. There he lay for ſome time in as great a fright, I ſup⯑poſe—"

"As you was in," interrupted Annette, "when you ſat up ſo boldly to watch by yourſelf."

"Aye," ſaid Ludovico," in as great a fright as he ever made any body elſe ſuf⯑fer; and preſently the houſekeeper and ſome other perſon came up to the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, bethought him, that his only chance of eſcaping detection, was by terrrifying them; ſo he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raiſed his face above it, and then they both ſet off, he ſaid, as if [327] they had ſeen the devil, and he got out of the rooms undiſcovered."

Emily could not forbear ſmiling at this explanation of the deception, which had given her ſo much ſuperſtitious terror; and was ſurpriſed, that ſhe could have ſuffered herſelf to be thus alarmed, till ſhe conſi⯑dered, that, when the mind has Once begun to yield to the weakneſs of ſuperſtition, trifles impreſs it with the force of convic⯑tion. Still, however, ſhe remembered with awe the myſterious muſic, which had been heard, at midnight, near Chateau-le⯑Blanc, and ſhe aſked Ludovico if he could give any explanation of it; but he could not.

"I only know, madam," he added, "that it did not belong to the pirates, for I have heard them laugh about it, and ſay, they believed the devil was in league with them there."

"Yes, I will anſwer for it he was," ſaid Annette, her countenance brightening, "I was ſure all along, that he or his ſpirits [328] had ſomething to do with the north apart⯑ments, and now you ſee, madam, I am right at laſt."

"It cannot be denied, that his ſpirits were very buſy in that part of the cha⯑teau," replied Emily, ſmiling. "But I am ſurpriſed, Ludovico, that theſe pirates ſhould perſevere in their ſchemes, after the arrival of the Count; what could they expect but certain detection?"

"I have reaſon to believe, madam," re⯑plied Ludovico, "that it was their intention to perſevere no longer than was neceſſary for the removal of the ſtores, which were depoſited in the vaults; and it appeared, that they had been employed in doing ſo from within a ſhort period after the Count's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the night for this buſineſs, and were carrying on other ſchemes at the ſame time, the vaults were not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloried exceedingly in this opportunity of con⯑firming the ſuperſtitious reports, that had [329] been ſpread of the north chambers, were careful to leave every thing there as they had found it, the better to promote the decep⯑tion, and frequently, in their jocoſe moods, would laugh at the conſternation, which they believed the inhabitants of the caſtle had ſuffered upon my diſappearing, and it was to prevent the poſſibility of my betray⯑ing their ſecret, that they had removed me to ſuch a diſtance. From that period they conſidered the chateau as nearly their own; but I found from the diſcourſe of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, at firſt, in ſhewing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayed themſelves. Going, one night, as was their cuſtom, to the north chambers to repeat the noiſes, that had occaſioned ſuch alarm among the ſervants, they heard, as they were about to unfaſten the ſecret door, voices in the bed⯑room. My lord has ſince told me, that himſelf and M. Henri were then in the apartment, and they heard very extraordi⯑nary ſounds of lamentation, which it ſeems [330] were made by theſe fellows, with their uſual deſign of ſpreading terror; and my lord has owned, he then felt ſomewhat more, than ſurpriſe; but, as it was neceſſary to the peace of his family, that no notice ſhould be taken, he was ſilent on the ſub⯑ject, and enjoined ſilence to his ſon."

Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the ſpirits of the Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north room, now perceived the cauſe of it; and, having made ſome further enquiries upon this ſtrange affair, ſhe diſmiſſed Lu⯑dovico, and went to give orders for the ac⯑commodation of her friends, on the follow⯑ing day.

In the evening, Thereſa, lame as ſhe was, came to deliver the ring, with which Va⯑lancourt had entruſted her, and, when ſhe preſented it, Emily was much affected, for ſhe remembered to have ſeen him wear it often in happier days. She was, however, much diſpleaſed, that Thereſa had received it, and poſitively refuſed to accept it her⯑ſelf, [331] though to have done ſo would have afforded her a melancholy pleaſure. The⯑reſa entreated, expoſtulated, and then de⯑scribed the diſtreſs of Valancourt, when he had given the ring, and repeated the meſ⯑ſage, with which he had commiſſioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not con⯑ceal the extreme ſorrow this recital occa⯑ſioned her, but wept, and remained loſt in thought.

"Alas! my dear young lady!" ſaid The⯑reſa, "why ſhould all this be? I have known you from your infancy, and it may well be ſuppoſed I love you, as if you was my own, and wiſh as much to ſee you hap⯑py. M. Valancourt, to be ſure, I have not known ſo long, but then I have reaſon to love him, as though he was my own ſon. I know how well you love one another, or why all this weeping and wailing?" Emily waved her hand for Thereſa to be ſilent, who, diſregarding the ſignal, continued, "And how much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if you were [332] married, you would be the happieſt couple in the whole province—then what is there to prevent your marrying? Dear dear! to ſee how ſome people fling away their hap⯑pineſs, and then cry and lament about it, juſt as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleaſure in wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learn⯑ing, to be ſure, is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I had rather be without it; if it would teach them to be happier, I would ſay ſome⯑thing to it, then it would be learning and wiſdom too."

Age and long ſervices had given Thereſa a privilege to talk, but Emily now endea⯑voured to check her loquacity, and, though ſhe felt the juſtneſs of ſome of her remarks, did not chooſe to explain the circumſtances, that had determined her conduct towards Va⯑lancourt. She, therefore, only told Thereſa, that it would much diſpleaſe her to hear the ſubject renewed; that ſhe had reaſons [333] for her conduct, which ſhe did not think it proper to mention, and that the ring muſt be returned, with an aſſurance, that ſhe could not accept it with propriety; and, at the ſame time, ſhe forbade Thereſa to re⯑peat any future meſſage from Valancourt, as ſhe valued her eſteem and kindneſs. Thereſa was afflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to intereſt her for Valancourt, but the unuſual diſpleaſure, expreſſed in Emily's countenance, ſoon obliged her to deſiſt, and ſhe departed in wonder and lamentation.

To relieve her mind, in ſome degree, from the painful recollections, that intruded upon it, Emily buſied herſelf in preparations for the journey into Languedoc, and, while An⯑nette, who aſſiſted her, ſpoke with joy and affection of the ſafe return of Ludovico, ſhe was conſidering how ſhe might beſt pro⯑mote their happineſs, and determined, if it appeared, that his affection was as un⯑changed as that of the ſimple and honeſt Annette, to give her a marriage portion, [334] and ſettle them on ſome part of her eſtate. Theſe conſiderations led her to the remem⯑brance of her father's paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled him to diſpoſe of to M. Queſnel, and which ſhe frequently wiſhed to regain, becauſe St. Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands of his anceſtors had paſſed into another family, and becauſe they had been his birth⯑place and the haunt of his early years. To the eſtate at Tholouſe ſhe had no pe⯑culiar attachment, and it was her wiſh to diſpoſe of this, that ſhe might purchaſe her paternal domains, if M. Queſnel could be prevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in Italy, did not ap⯑pear very improbable.

CHAP. XV.

On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping Emily, and La Vallée became once more the ſcene of ſocial kindneſs and of elegant hoſpitality. Illneſs and the terror ſhe had ſuffered had ſtolen from Blanche much of her ſprightlineſs, but all her affectionate ſimplicity remained, and, though ſhe appeared leſs blooming, ſhe was not leſs engaging than before. The unfor⯑tunate adventure on the Pyrenées had made the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a week's ſtay at La Vallée, Emily prepared to ſet out with her friends for Languedoc, aſſigning the care of her houſe, during her abſence, to Thereſa. [336] On the evening, preceding her departure, this old ſervant brought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her miſtreſs to receive it, for that ſhe had neither ſeen, or heard of M. Valancourt, ſince the night when he delivered it to her. As ſhe ſaid this, her countenance expreſſed more alarm, than ſhe dared to utter; but Emily, check⯑ing her own propenſity to fear, conſidered, that he had probably returned to the reſi⯑dence of his brother, and, again refuſing to accept the ring, bade Thereſa preſerve it, till ſhe ſaw him, which, with extreme reluc⯑tance, ſhe promiſed to do.

On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady Blanche, left La Vallée, and, on the enſuing evening, arrived at the Chateau-le-Blanc, where the Coun⯑teſs, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom Emily was ſurpriſed to find there, received them with much joy and congratulation. She was concerned to obſerve, that the Count ſtill encouraged the hopes of his friend, whoſe countenance declared, that his affect⯑tion [337] had ſuffered no abatement from abſence; and was much diſtreſſed, when, on the ſecond evening after her arrival, the Count, having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom ſhe was walking, renewed the ſubject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildneſs, with which ſhe liſtened to his interceſſions at firſt, deceiving him, as to her ſentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourt being overcome, ſhe was, at length, diſpoſed to think favourably of M. Du Pont; and, when ſhe afterwards con⯑vinced him of his miſtake, he ventured, in the earneſtneſs of his wiſh to promote what he conſidered to be the happineſs of two perſons, whom he ſo much eſteemed, gently to remonſtrate with her, on thus ſuffering an ill-placed affection to poiſon the happineſs of her moſt valuable years.

Obſerving her ſilence and the deep dejec⯑tion of her countenance, he concluded with ſaying, "I will not ſay more now, but I will ſtill believe, my dear Mademoiſelle St. Aubert, that you will nor always reject a [338] perſon, ſo truly eſtimable as my friend Du Pont."

He ſpared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and ſhe ſtrolled on, ſomewhat diſpleaſed with the Count for having perſe⯑vered to plead for a ſuit, which ſhe had re⯑peatedly rejected, and loſt amidſt the melan⯑choly recollections, which this topic had re⯑vived, till ſhe had inſenſibly reached the borders of the woods, that ſcreened the mo⯑naſtery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how far ſhe had wandered, ſhe determined to ex⯑tend her walk a little farther, and to enquire after the abbeſs and ſome of her friends among the nuns.

Though the evening was now drawing to a cloſe, ſhe accepted the invitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet ſome of her old acquaintance, pro⯑ceeded towards the convent parlour. As ſhe croſſed the lawn, that ſtoped from the front of the monaſtery towards the ſea, ſhe was ſtruck with the picture of repoſe, exhi⯑bited by ſome monks, ſitting in the cloiſters, [339] which extended under the brew of the woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this twilight hour, holy ſubjects, they ſometimes ſuffered their attention to be relieved by the ſcene before them, nor thought it profane to look at na⯑ture, now that it had exchanged the bril⯑liant colours of day for the ſober hue of evening. Before the cloiſters, however, ſpread an ancient cheſnut, whoſe ample branches were deſigned to ſcreen the full magnificence of a ſcene, that might tempt the wiſh to worldly pleaſures; but ſtill, be⯑neath the dark and ſpreading foliage, gleam⯑ed a wide extent of ocean, and many a paſſ⯑ing ſail; while, to the right and left, thick woods were ſeen ſtretching along the wind⯑ing ſhores. So much as this had been ad⯑mitted, perhaps, to give to the ſecluded vo⯑tary an image of the dangers and viciſſitudes of life, and to conſole him, now that he had renounced its pleaſures, by the certainty of having eſcaped its evils. As Emily walked [340] penſively along, conſidering how much ſuf⯑fering ſhe might have eſcaped, had ſhe be⯑come a votareſs of the order, and remained in this retirement from the time of her fa⯑ther's death, the veſper-bell ſtruck up, and the monks retired ſlowly toward the chapel, while ſhe, purſuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unuſual ſilence ſeemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, ſhe found vacant, but, as the even⯑ing bell was ſounding, ſhe believed the nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and ſat down to reſt, for a moment, before ſhe returned to the chateau, where, however, the increaſing gloom made her now anxious to be.

Not many minutes had elapſed, before a nun, entering in haſte, enquired for the ab⯑beſs, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when ſhe made herſelf known, and then learned, that a maſs was going to be performed for the ſoul of ſiſter Agnes, who had been declining, for ſome time, and who was now believed to be dying.

[341] Of her ſufferings the ſiſter gave a melan⯑choly account, and of the horrors, into which ſhe had frequently ſtarted, but which had now yielded to a dejection ſo gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which ſhe was joined by the ſiſterhood, or the aſſurances of her confeſſor, had power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary gleam of comfort.

To this relation Emily liſtened with ex⯑treme concern, and, recollecting the fren⯑zied manners and the expreſſions of horror, which ſhe had herſelf witneſſed of Agnes, to⯑gether with the hiſtory, that ſiſter Frances had communicated, her compaſſion was height⯑ened to a very painful degree. As the even⯑ing was already far advanced, Emily did not now deſire to ſee her, or to join in the maſs, and, after leaving many kind remem⯑brances with the nun, for her old friends, ſhe quitted the monaſtery, and returned over the cliffs toward the chateau, meditating upon what ſhe had juſt: heard, till, at length [342] ſhe forced her mind upon leſs intereſting ſubjects.

The wind was high, and as ſhe drew near the chateau, ſhe often pauſed to liſten to its awful ſound, as it ſwept over the bil⯑lows, that beat below, or groaned along the ſurrounding woods; and, while ſhe reſted on a cliff at a ſhort diſtance from the cha⯑teau, and looked upon the wide waters, ſeen dimly beneath the laſt ſhade of twilight, ſhe thought of the following addreſs.

CHAP. XVI.

ON the following evening, the view of the convent towers, riſing among the ſha⯑dowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whoſe condition had ſo much affected her; and, anxious to know how ſhe was, as well as to ſee ſome of her former friends, ſhe and the Lady Blanche extended their walk to the monaſtery. At the gate ſtood a car⯑riage, which, from the heat of the horſes, appeared to have juſt arrived; but a more than common ſtillneſs pervaded the court and the cloiſters, through which Emily and Blanche paſſed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was croſſing to the ſtair-caſe, replied to the enquiries of the [345] former, that ſiſter Agnes was ſtill living, and ſenſible, but that it was thought ſhe could not ſurvive the night. In the par⯑lour, they found ſeveral of the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little circumſtances that had happened in the convent ſince her departure, and which were intereſting to her only becauſe they related to perſons, whom ſhe had re⯑garded with affection. While they thus converſed, the abbeſs entered the room, and expreſſed much ſatisfaction at ſeeing Emily, but her manner was unuſually ſo⯑lemn, and her countenance dejected. "Our houſe," ſaid ſhe, after the firſt ſalutations were over, "is truly a houſe of mourning—a daughter is now paying the debt of na⯑ture.—You have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?"

Emily expreſſed her ſincere concern.

"Her death preſents to us a great and awful leſſon," continued the abbeſs; "let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare ourſelves for the change, that [346] awaits us all! You are young, and have it yet in your power to ſecure "the peace that paſſeth all underſtanding"—the peace of conſcience. Preſerve it in your youth, that it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good deeds of our latter years, if thoſe of our early life have been evil!"

Emily would have ſaid, that good deeds, ſhe hoped, were never vain; but ſhe conſi⯑dered that it was the abbeſs who ſpoke, and ſhe remained ſilent.

"The latter days of Agnes," reſumed the abbeſs, "have been exemplary; would they might atone for the errors of her for⯑mer ones! Her ſufferings now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace hereafter! I have left her with her confeſſor, and a gentleman, whom ſhe has long been anxious to ſee, and who is juſt arrived from Paris. They, I hope, will be able to adminiſter the repoſe, which her mind has hitherto wante!"

Emily ſervently joined in the wiſh.

[347] "During her illneſs, ſhe has ſometimes named you," reſumed the abbeſs; "per⯑haps, it would comfort her to ſee you; when her preſent viſitors have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the ſcene will not be too melancholy for your ſpirits. But, indeed, to ſuch ſcenes, however painful, we ought to accuſtom ourſelves, for they are ſalutary to the ſoul, and prepare us for what we are ourſelves to ſuffer."

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this converſation brought to her recol⯑lection the dying moments of her beloved father, and ſhe wiſhed once more to weep over the ſpot, where his remains were bu⯑ried. During the ſilence, which followed the abbeſs's ſpeech, many minute circum⯑ſtances attending his laſt hours occurred to her—his emotion on perceiving himſelf to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc—his requeſt to be interred in a par⯑ticular ſpot in the church of this monaſtery—and the ſolemn charge he had delivered her to deſtroy certain papers, without exa⯑mining [348] them.—She recollected alſo the myſterious and horrible words in thoſe ma⯑nuſcripts, upon which her eye had involun⯑tarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever ſhe remembered them, re⯑vived an exceſs of painful curioſity, con⯑cerning their full import, and the motives for her father's command, it was ever her chief conſolation, that ſhe had ſtrictly obeyed him in this particular.

Little more was ſaid by the abbeſs, who appeared too much affected by the ſubject ſhe had lately left, to be willing to con⯑verſe, and her companions had been for ſome time ſilent from the ſame cauſe, when this general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a ſtranger, Monſieur Bonnac, who had juſt quitted the chamber of ſiſter Agnes. He appeared much diſturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the expreſſion of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbeſs to a diſtant part of the room, he converſed with her for ſome time, during which ſhe ſeemed [349] to liſten with earneſt attention, and he to ſpeak with caution, and a more than com⯑mon degree of intereſt. When he had con⯑cluded, he bowed ſilently to the reſt of the company, and quitted the room. The ab⯑beſs, ſoon after, propoſed going to the chamber of ſiſter Agnes, to which Emily conſented, though not without ſome reluc⯑tance, and Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the confeſſor, whom, as he lifted up his head on their approach, Emily obſerved to be the ſame that had attended her dying fa⯑ther; but he passed on, without noticing her, and they entered the apartment, where, on a mattreſs, was laid sifter Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was ſo much, changed, that Emily would ſcarcely have recollected her, had ſhe not been prepared to do ſo: it was ghaſtly, and overſpread with gloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which ſhe held upon her bo⯑som [350] and ſhe was ſo much engaged in thought, as not to perceive the abbeſs and Emily, till they stood at the bed-ſide, Then, turning her heavy eyes, ſhe fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily; and, ſcreaming, exclaimed, "Ah! that viſion comes upon me in my dying hours!"

Emily ſtarted back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbeſs, who made her a ſignal not to be alarmed, and calmly ſaid to Agnes, "Daughter, I have brought Mademoiſelle St. Aubert to viſit you: I thought you would be glad to ſee her."

Agnes made no reply; but, ſtill gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, "It is her very ſelf! Oh! there is all that faſcination in her look, which proved my deſtruction! What would you have—what is it you come to demand—Retribution?—It will ſoon be yours—it is yours already. How many years have paſſed, ſince laſt I ſaw you! My crime is but as yeſterday.—Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are ſtill young and blooming—blooming as [351] when you forced me to commit that moſt abhorred deed! O! could I once forget it!—yet what would that avail?—the deed is done!"

Emily, extremely ſhocked, would now have left the room; but the abbeſs, taking her hand, tried to ſupport her ſpirits, and begged ſhe would ſtay a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now ſhe tried to ſooth, But the lat⯑ter ſeemed to diſregard her, while ſhe ſtill fixed her eyes on Emily, and added, "What are years of prayers and repent⯑ance? they cannot waſh out the foulneſs of murder!—Yes, murder! Where is he—where is he?—Look there—look there!—ſee where he ſtalks along the room! Why do you come to torment me now?" conti⯑nued Agnes, while her ſtraining eyes were bent on air, "why was not I puniſhed be⯑fore?—O! do not frown ſo ſternly! Hah! there again! 'tis ſhe herſelf! Why do you look ſo piteouſly upon me—and ſmile, too? ſmile on me! What groan was that?"

[352] Agnes ſunk down, apparently lifeleſs, and Emily, unable to ſupport herſelf, leaned againſt the bed, while the abbeſs and the attendant nun were applying the uſual re⯑medies to Agnes. "Peace," ſaid the ab⯑beſs, when Emily was going to ſpeak, "the delirium is going off, ſhe will ſoon re⯑vive. When was ſhe thus before, daugh⯑ter?"

"Not of many weeks, madam," re⯑plied the nun,"but her ſpirits have been much agitated by the arrival of the gentle⯑man ſhe wiſhed ſo much to ſee."

"Yes," obſerved the abbeſs, "that has undoubtedly occaſioned this paroxyſm of frenzy. When ſhe is better, we will leave her to repoſe."

Emily very readily conſented, but, though ſhe could now give little aſſiſtance, ſhe was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be neceſſary.

When Agnes recovered her ſenſes, ſhe again fixed her eyes on Emily, but their wild expreſſion was gone, and a gloomy me⯑lancholy [353] had ſucceeded. It was ſome mo⯑ments before ſhe recovered ſufficient ſpirits to ſpeak; ſhe then ſaid feebly—"The likeneſs is wonderful!—ſurely it muſt be ſomething more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you," ſhe added, addreſſing Emily, "though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the daughter of the Marchioneſs?" "What Marchioneſs?" ſaid Emily, in ex⯑treme ſurpriſe; for ſhe had imagined, from the calmneſs of Agnes's manner, that her intellects were reſtored, The abbeſs gave her a ſignificant glance, but ſhe repeated the queſtion.

"What Marchioneſs?" exclaimed Ag⯑nes, "I know but of one—the Marchioneſs de Villeroi."

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected mention of this lady, and his requeſt to be laid near the tomb of the Villerois, now felt greatly intereſted, and ſhe entreated Agnes to ex⯑plain the reaſon of her queſtion. The ab⯑beſs would now have withdrawn Emily [354] from the room, who being, however, de⯑tained by a ſtrong intereſt, repeated her en⯑treaties.

"Bring me that caſket, ſiſter," ſaid Ag⯑nes; "I will ſhew her to you; yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you ſurely are her daughter: ſuch ſtriking reſemblance is never found but among near relations."

The nun brought the caſket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock it, ſhe took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact reſemblance of the pic⯑ture, which ſhe had found among her late fa⯑ther's papers. Agnes held out her hand to re⯑ceive it; gazed upon it earneſtly for ſome moments in ſilence; and then, with a counte⯑nance of deep deſpair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When ſhe had finiſhed, ſhe returned the miniature to Emily. "Keep it," ſaid ſhe, "I bequeath it to you, for I muſt believe it is your right. I have frequently obſerved the re⯑ſemblance between you; but never, till this [355] day, did it ſtrike upon my conſcience ſo powerfully! Stay, ſiſter, do not remove the caſket—there is another picture I would ſhew."

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbeſs again would have withdrawn her. "Agnes is ſtill diſordered," ſaid ſhe, "you obſerve how ſhe wanders. In theſe moods ſhe ſays any thing, and does not ſcruple, as you have witneſſed, to accuſe herſelf of the moſt horrible crimes."

Emily, however, thought ſhe perceived ſomething more than madneſs in the incon⯑ſiſtencies of Agnes, whoſe mention of the Marchioneſs, and production of her picture, had intereſted her ſo much, that ſhe deter⯑mined to obtain further information, if poſ⯑ſible, reſpecting the ſubject of it.

The nun returned with the caſket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a ſecret drawer, ſhe took from it another miniature. "Here," ſaid Agnes, as ſhe offered it to Emily, "learn a leſſon for your vanity, at leaſt; look well at this picture, and see if you can [356] diſcover any reſemblance between what I was, and what I am"

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had ſcarcely glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly ſuf⯑fered it to fall—it was the reſemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini, which ſhe had formerly ſeen in the caſtle of Udol⯑pho—the lady, who had diſappeared in ſo myſterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been ſuſpected of having cauſed to be murdered.

In ſilent aſtoniſhment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a reſem⯑blance between them, which no longer exiſted.

"Why do you look ſo ſternly on me?" ſaid Agnes, miſtaking the nature of Emily's emotion.

"I have ſeen this face before" ſaid Emily, at length; "was it really your re⯑ſemblance?"

"You may well aſk that queſtion," re⯑plied [357] the nun,—"but it was once eſteemed a ſtriking likeneſs of me. Look at me well, and ſee what guilt has made me. I then was innocent; the evil paſſions of my nature ſlept. Siſter!" added ſhe ſolemnly, and ſtretching forth her cold, damp hand to Emily, who ſhuddered at its touch—"Siſ⯑ter! beware of the firſt indulgence of the paſſions; beware of the firſt! Their courſe, if not checked then, is rapid—their force is uncontroulable—they lead us we know not whither—they lead us perhaps to the com⯑miſſion of crimes, for which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such may be the force of even a ſingle paſſion, that it overcomes every other, and ſears up every other approach to the heart. Poſ⯑ſeſſing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us inſenſible to pity and to conſcience. And, when its purpoſe is accompliſhed, like a fiend, it leaves us to the torture of thoſe feelings, which its power had ſuſpended—not annihilated,—to [358] the tortures of compaſſion, remorſe, and conſcience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new world around us—we gaze in aſtoniſhment, and horror—but the deed is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo it—and the ſpectres of conſcience will not fly! What are riches—grandeur—health itſelf, to the luxury of a pure conſcience, the health of the ſoul;—and what the ſufferings of poverty, diſappointment, deſpair—to the anguiſh of an afflicted one! O! how long is it ſince I knew that luxury! I be⯑lieved, that I had ſuffered the moſt agoniz⯑ing pangs of human nature, in love, jealouſy and deſpair—but theſe pangs were eaſe, compared with the ſtings of conſcience, which I have ſince endured. I taſted too what was called the ſweet of revenge—but it was tranſient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember, ſiſter, that the paſſions are the ſeeds of vices as well as of virtues, from which either may ſpring, ac⯑cordingly [359] as they are nurtured. Unhappy they who have never been taught the art to govern them"

"Alas! unhappy!" ſaid the abbeſs, "and ill-informed of our holy religion!" Emily liſtened to Agnes, in ſilent awe, while ſhe ſtill examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its ſtrong reſemblance to the portrait at Udol⯑pho. "This face is familiar to me" ſaid ſhe, wiſhing to lead the nun to an explana⯑tion, yet fearing to diſcover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.

"You are miſtaken" replied Agnes, "you certainly never ſaw that picture be⯑fore."

"No," replied Emily, "but I have ſeen one extremely like it" "Impoſſible," said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.

"It was in the caſtle of Udolpho" con⯑tinued Emily, looking ſtedfaſtly at her.

"Of Udolpho!" exclaimed Laurentini, [360] "of Udolpho in Italy!" "The ſame," re⯑plied Emily.

"You know me then," ſaid Laurentini, "and you are the daughter of the Marchio⯑neſs" Emily was ſomewhat ſurpriſed at this abrupt aſſertion. "I am the daughter of the late Monſ. St. Aubert," ſaid ſhe; "and the lady you name is an utter ſtran⯑ger to me."

"At leaſt you believe ſo," rejoined Lau⯑rentini.

Emily aſked what reaſons there could be to believe otherwiſe.

"The family likeneſs, that yon bear her," ſaid the nun. "The Marchioneſs, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gaſcony, at the time when ſhe accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of her father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!"

Emily, remembering the extreme emo⯑tion which St. Aubert had betrayed on the mention of the Marchioneſs, would now have ſuffered ſomething more than ſurpriſe, [361] had her confidence in his integrity been leſs; as it was, ſhe could not, for a mo⯑ment, believe what the words of Laurentini inſinuated; yet ſhe ſtill felt ſtrongly inte⯑reſted, concerning them, and begged, that ſhe would explain them further.

"Do not urge me on that ſubject" ſaid the nun, "it is to me a terrible one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!" She ſighed deeply, and, after the pauſe of a moment, aſked Emily, by what means ſhe had diſcovered her name?

"By your portrait in the caſtle of Udol⯑pho, to which this miniature bears a ſtriking reſemblance" replied Emily.

"You have been at Udolpho then!" ſaid the nun, with great emotion. "Alas! what ſcenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy—ſcenes of happineſs—of ſuffer⯑ing—and of horror!"

At this moment, the terrible ſpectacle, which Emily had witneſſed in a chamber of that caſftle, occurred to her, and ſhe ſhud⯑dered, while ſhe looked upon the nun— [362] and recollected her late words—that "years of prayer and penitence could not waſh out the foulneſs of murder." She was now com⯑pelled to attribute theſe to another cauſe, than that of delirium. With a degree of horror, that almoſt deprived her of ſenſe, ſhe now believed ſhe looked upon a mur⯑derer; all the recollected behaviour of Laurentini ſeemed to confirm the ſuppoſi⯑tion, yet Emily was ſtill loſt in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to aſk the queſtions, which might lead to truth, ſhe could only hint them in broken ſentences.

"Your ſudden departure from Udolpho"—ſaid ſhe.

Laurentini groaned.

"The reports that followed it," conti⯑nued Emily—"The weſt chamber—the mourning veil—the object it conceals!—when murders are committed—"

The nun ſhrieked, "What! there again!" ſaid ſhe, endeavouring to raiſe herſelf, while her ſtarting eyes ſeemed to [363] follow ſome object round the room—"Come from the grave! What! Blood—blood too!—There was no blood—thou canſt not ſay it!—Nay, do not ſmile,—do not ſmile ſo piteouſly!"

Laurentini fell into convulſions, as ſhe uttered the laſt words; and Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the ſcene, hurried from the room, and ſent ſome nuns to the aſſiſtance of the abbeſs.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now aſſembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and af⯑frighted countenance, aſked a hundred queſ⯑tions, which ſhe avoided anſwering further, than by ſaying, that ſhe believed ſiſter Ag⯑nes was dying. They received this as a ſufficient explanation of her terror, and had then leiſure to offer reſtoratives, which, at length, ſomewhat revived Emily, whoſe mind was, however, ſo much ſhocked with terrible ſur miſes, and perplexed with doubts by ſome words from the nun, that ſhe was [364] unable to converſe, and would have left the convent immediately, had ſhe not wiſhed to know whether Laurentini would ſurvive the late attack. After waiting ſome time, ſhe was informed, that, the convulſions having ceaſed, Laurentini ſeemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were departing, when the abbeſs appeared, who, drawing the former aſide, ſaid ſhe had ſomething of conſequence to ſay to her, but, as it was late, ſhe would not detain her then, and requeſted to ſee her on the following day.

Emily promiſed to viſit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the Lady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom of the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was ſo far advanced; for the ſurrounding ſtillneſs and obſcurity rendered her ſenſible of fear, though there was a ſervant to protect her; while Emily was too much engaged by the horrors of the ſcene ſhe had juſt witneſſed, to be affected by the ſolemnity of the ſhades, otherwiſe [365] than as they ſerved to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, ſhe was at length recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at ſome diſtance, in the duſky path they were winding, two perſons ſlowly advancing. It was impoſſible to avoid them without ſtriking into a ſtill more ſecluded part of the wood, whither the ſtrangers might eaſily follow; but all apprehenſion vaniſhed, when Emily diſtinguiſhed the voice of Monſ. Du Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom ſhe had ſeen at the monaſtery, and who was now converſing with ſo much ear⯑neſtneſs as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont joined the ladies, the ſtranger took leave, and they proceeded to the chateau, where the Count, when he heard of Monſ. Bonnac, claimed him for an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occaſion of his viſit to Lan⯑guedoc, and that he was lodged at a ſmall inn in the village, begged the favour of [366] Monſ. Du Pont to invite him to the cha⯑teau.

The latter was happy to do ſo, and the ſcruples of reſerve, which made M. Bonnac heſitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome, they went to the chateau, where the kindneſs of the Count and the ſprightlineſs of his ſon were exerted to diſ⯑ſipate the gloom, that overhung the ſpirits of the ſtranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the French ſervice, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall and com⯑manding, his manners had received the laſt poliſh, and there was ſomething in his coun⯑tenance uncommonly intereſting; for over features, which, in youth, muſt have been remarkably handſome, was ſpread a melan⯑choly, that ſeemed the effect of long miſ⯑fortune, rather than of conſtitution, or tem⯑per.

The converſation he held, during ſupper, was evidently an effort of politeneſs, and there were intervals in which, unable to [367] ſtruggle againſt the feelings, that depreſſed him, he relapſed into ſilence and abſtrac⯑tion, from which, however, the Count, ſometimes, withdrew him in a manner ſo delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while ſhe obſerved him, almoſt fancied ſhe beheld her late father.

The party ſeparated, at an early hour, and then, in the ſolitude of her apartment, the ſcenes, which Emily had lately wit⯑neſſed, returned to her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun ſhe ſhould have diſcovered Signora Laurentini, who, inſtead of having been murdered by Mon⯑toni, was, as it now ſeemed, herſelf guilty of ſome dreadful crime, excited both horror and ſurpriſe in a high degree; nor did the hints, which ſhe had dropped, reſpecting the marriage of the Marchioneſs de Vil⯑leroi, and the enquiries ſhe had made con⯑cerning Emily's birth, occaſion her a leſs degree of intereſt, though it was of a dif⯑ferent nature.

The hiſtory, which ſiſter Frances had for⯑merly [368] related, and had ſaid to be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpoſe it had been fabricated, un⯑leſs the more effectually to conceal the true ſtory, Emily could not even gueſs. Above all, her intereſt was excited as to the rela⯑tion, which the ſtory of the late Marchioneſs de Villeroi bore to that of her father; for, that ſome kind of relation exiſted between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hear⯑ing her named, his requeſt to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been ſound among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that he might have been the lover, to whom it was ſaid the Marchioneſs was attached, when ſhe was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but that he had afterwards Che⯑riſhed a paſſion for her, ſhe could not ſuffer herſelf to believe, for a moment. The pa⯑pers, which he had ſo ſolemnly enjoined her to deſtroy, ſhe now fancied had related to this connection, and ſhe wiſhed more earneſtly than before to know the reaſons, [369] that made him conſider the injunction neceſſary, which, had her faith in his princi⯑ples been leſs, would have led to believe, that there was a myſtery in her birth diſho⯑nourable to her parents, which thoſe manu⯑ſcripts might have revealed.

Reflections, ſimilar to theſe, engaged her mind, during the greater part of the night, and when, at length, ſhe fell into a ſlumber, it was only to behold a viſion of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, like thoſe ſhe had witneſſed.

On the following morning, ſhe was too much indiſpoſed to attend her appointment with the abbeſs, and, before the day con⯑cluded, ſhe heard, that ſiſter Agnes was no more. Monſ. Bonnac received this intelli⯑gence, with concern; but Emily obſerved, that he did not appear ſo much affected now, as on the preceding evening, imme⯑diately after quitting the apartment of the nun, whoſe death was probably leſs terrible to him, than the confeſſion he had been then called upon to witneſs. However this [370] might be, he was perhaps conſoled, in ſome degree, by a knowledge of the legacy be⯑queathed him, ſince his family was large, and the extravagance of ſome part of it had lately been the means of involving him in great diſtreſs, and even in the hor⯑rors of a priſon; and it was the grief he had ſuffered from the wild career of a favourite ſon, with the pecuniary anxie⯑ties and misfortunes conſequent upon it, that had given to his countenance the air of dejection, which had ſo much intereſted Emily.

To his friend Monſ. Du Pont he recited ſome particulars of his late ſufferings, when it appeared, that he had been conſined for ſeveral months in one of the priſons of Pa⯑ris, with little hope of releaſe, and without the comfort of ſeeing his wife, who had been abſent in the country, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure aſſiſtance from his friends. When, at length, ſhe had ob⯑tained an order for admittance, ſhe was ſo much ſhocked at the change, which long [371] conſinement and ſorrow had made in his ap⯑pearance, that ſhe was ſeized with ſits, which, by their long continuance, threatened her life.

"Our ſituation affected thoſe, who hap⯑pened to witneſs it," continued Monſ. Bon⯑nac, "and one generous friend, who was in conſinement at the ſame time, afterwards employed the firſt moments of his liberty in efforts to obtain mine. He ſucceeded; the heavy debt, that oppreſſed me, was diſ⯑charged; and, when I would have expreſſed my ſenſe of the obligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my ſearch. I have reaſon to believe he was the victim of his own generoſity, and that he returned to the ſtate of conſinement, from which he had releaſed me; but every enquiry after him was unſucceſsful. Amiable and unfortu⯑nate Valancourt!"

"Valancourt!" exclaimed Monſ. Du Pont. "Of what family?"

"The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney," replied Monſ. Bonnac.

[372] The emotion of Monſ. Du Pont, when he diſcovered the generous benefactor of his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but, having overcome his firſt ſurpriſe, he diſſipated the appre⯑henſions of Monſ. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and had lately been in Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily prompted him to make ſome enquiries, reſpecting the conduct of his rival, during his ſtay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to be well in⯑formed. The anſwers he received were ſuch as convinced him, that Valancourt had been much miſrepreſented, and, painful as was the ſacrifice, he formed the juſt de⯑ſign of relinquiſhing his purſuit of Emily to a lover, who, it now appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with which ſhe ho⯑noured him.

The converſation of Monſ. Bonnac diſ⯑covered, that Valancourt, ſome time after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the ſnares, which determined vice had ſpread [373] for him, and that his hours had been chiefly divided between the parties of the captivat⯑ing Marchioneſs and thoſe gaming aſſemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his bro⯑ther officers had ſpared no art to ſeduce him. In theſe parties he had loſt large ſums, in ef⯑forts to recover ſmall ones, and to ſuch loſſes the Count De Villefort and Monſ. Henri had been frequent witneſſes. His reſources were, at length, exhauſted; and the Count, his brother, exaſperated by his conduct, re⯑fuſed to continue the ſupplies neceſſary to his preſent mode of life, when Valancourt, in conſequence of accumulated debts, was thrown into conſinement, where his brother ſuffered him to remain, in the hope, that puniſhment might effect a reform of con⯑duct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.

In the ſolitude of his priſon, Valancourt had leiſure for reflection, and cauſe for re⯑pentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidſt the diſſipation of the city had been obſcured, but never obliterated [374] from his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, to reproach him for having ſacrificed his happineſs and de⯑baſed his talents by purſuits, which his no⯑bler faculties would formerly have taught him to conſider were as taſteleſs as they were degrading. But, though his paſſions had been ſeduced, his heart was not de⯑praved, nor had habit riveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conſcience; and, as he retained that energy of will, which was neceſſary to burſt them, he, at length, emancipated himſelf from the bondage of vice, but not till after much effort and ſe⯑vere ſuffering.

Being releaſed by his brother from the priſon, where he had witneſſed the affecting meeting between Monſ. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he had been for ſome time acquainted, the firſt uſe of his liberty formed a ſtriking inſtance of his humanity and his raſhneſs; for with nearly all the money, juſt received from his brother, he went to a gaming-houſe, and gave it as a laſt ſtake [375] for the chance of reſtoring his friend to freedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was fortunate, and, while he had awaited the iſſue of this momentous ſtake, he made a ſolemn vow never again to yield to the deſtructive and faſcinating vice of gaming.

Having reſtored the venerable Monſ. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he hurried from Paris to Eſtuviere; and, in the de⯑light of having made the wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however, he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without which he could never hope to marry Emily; and life, unleſs paſſed with her, now ſcarcely ap⯑peared ſupportable; for her goodneſs, re⯑ſinement, and ſimplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if poſſible, to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taught him to underſtand the full value of the qualities, which he had before admired, but which the con⯑trasted characters he had ſeen in the world [376] made him now adore; and theſe reflections, increaſing the pangs of remorſe and regret, occaſioned the deep dejection, that had ac⯑companied him even into the preſence of Emily, of whom he conſidered himſelf no longer worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligations from the Marchioneſs Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the Count De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the depredating ſchemes of gameſters, Valan⯑court had never ſubmitted; and theſe were ſome of ſuch ſcandals as often mingle with truth, againſt the unfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from au⯑thority, which he had no reaſon to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he had himſelf witneſſed in Valancourt, had cer⯑tainly induced him the more readily to be⯑lieve. Being ſuch as Emily could not name to the Chevalier, he had no opportu⯑nity of refuting them; and, when he con⯑feſſed himſelf to be unworthy of her eſteem, he little ſuſpected, that he was confirming [377] to her the moſt dreadful calumnies. Thus the miſtake had been mutual, and had re⯑mained ſo, when Monſ. Bonnac explained the conduct of his generous, but impru⯑dent young friend to Du Pont, who, with ſevere juſtice, determined not only to unde⯑ceive the Count on this ſubject, but to re⯑ſign all hope of Emily. Such a ſacrifice as his love rendered this, was deſerving of a noble reward, and Monſ. Bonnac, if it had been poſſible for him to forget the benevo⯑lent Valancourt, would have wiſhed that Emily might accept the juſt Du Pont.

When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was extremely ſhocked at the conſequence of his credu⯑lity, and the account which Monſ. Bonnac gave of his friend's ſituation, while at Paris, convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the ſchemes of a ſet of diſſi⯑pated young men, with whom his profeſ⯑ſion had partly obliged him to aſſociate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmed by the humanity, and noble, though [378] raſh generoſity, which his conduct towards Monſ. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the tranſient errors, that had ſtained his youth, and reſtored him to the high degree of eſteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early acquaintance. But, as the leaſt reparation he could now make Va⯑lancourt was to afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct, he immediately wrote, to requeſt his for⯑giveneſs of the unintentional injury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le⯑Blanc. Motives of delicacy with-held the Count from informing Emily of this letter, and of kindneſs from acquainting her with the diſcovery reſpecting Valancourt, till his arrival ſhould ſave her from the poſſibility of anxiety, as to its event; and this precau⯑tion ſpared her even ſeverer inquietude, than the Count had foreſeen, ſince he was igno⯑rant of the ſymptoms of deſpair, which Va⯑lancourt's late conduct had betrayed.

CHAP. XVII.

SOME circumſtances of an extraordinary nature now withdrew Emily from her own ſorrows, and excited emotions, which par⯑took of both ſurpriſe and horror.

A few days following that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her will was opened at the monaſtery, in the preſence of the ſu⯑periors and Monſ. Bonnac, when it was found, that one third of her perſonal pro⯑perty was bequeathed to the neareſt ſurviv⯑ing relative of the late Marchioneſs de Vil⯑leroi, and that Emily was the perſon.

With the ſecret of Emily's family the abbeſs had long been acquainted, and it was [280] in obſervance of the earneſt requeſt of St. Aubert, who was known to the friar, that attended him on his death bed, that his daughter had remained in ignorance of her relationſhip to the Marchioneſs. But ſome hints, which had fallen from Signora Lau⯑rentini, during her laſt interview with Emily, and a confeſſion of a very extraordinary na⯑ture, given in her dying hours, had made the abbeſs think it neceſſary to converſe with her young friend, on the topic ſhe had not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this purpoſe, that ſhe had requeſted to ſee her on the morning that followed her interview with the nun. Emily's indiſ⯑poſition had then prevented the intended converſation; but now, after the will had been examined, ſhe received a ſummons, which ſhe immediately obeyed, and became informed of circumſtances, that powerfully affected her. As the narrative of the ab⯑beſs was, however, deficient in many parti⯑culars, of which the reader may wiſh to be informed, and the hiſtory of the nun is ma⯑terially [381] connected with the fate of the Mar⯑chioneſs de Villeroi, we ſhall omit the con⯑verſation, that paſſed in the parlour of the convent, and mingle with our relation a brief hiſtory of

CHAP. XVIII.

AFTER the late diſcoveries, Emily was diſtinguiſhed at the chateau by the Count and his family, as a relative of the houſe of Villeroi, and received, if poſſible, more friendly attention, than had yet been ſhewn her.

Count De Villefort's ſurpriſe at the delay of an anſwer to his letter, which had been di⯑rected to Valancourt, at Eſtuviere, was min⯑gled with ſatisfaction for the prudence, which had ſaved Emily from a share of the anxiety he now differed, though, when he ſaw her ſtill drooping under the effect of his former error, [406] all his reſolution was neceſſary to reſtrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary relief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his attention with this ſubject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the chateau were al⯑ready buſied in preparations for that event, and the arrival of Monſ. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, which ſurrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her ſpirits being depreſſed by the late diſcove⯑ries and by the anxiety concerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been occaſioned by the deſcription of his manner, when he had delivered the ring. She ſeemed to per⯑ceive in it the gloomy wildneſs of deſpair; and, when me conſidered to what that de⯑ſpair might have urged him, her heart ſunk with terror and grief. The ſtate of ſuſpenſe, as to his ſafety, to which ſhe believed herſelf condemned, till ſhe ſhould return to La Vallée, appeared inſupportable, and, in ſuch moments, ſhe could not even ſtruggle to [407] aſſume the compoſure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the company ſhe was with, and endeavour to ſooth her ſpirits in the deep ſolitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the ſhore. Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and the ſullen murmur of the wind among the branches around, were cir⯑cumſtances in uniſon with the temper of her mind; and ſhe would sit on a cliff, or on the broken ſteps of her favourite watch⯑tower, obſerving the changing colours of the evening clouds, and the gloom of twi⯑light draw over the ſea, till the white tops of billows, riding towards the ſhore, could ſcarcely be diſcerned amidſt the darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, ſhe frequently repeated with melancholy enthuſiaſm, and then would en⯑deavour to check the recollections and the grief they occaſioned, and to turn her thoughts to indifferent ſubjects.

One evening, having wandered with her [408] lute to this her favourite ſpot, ſhe entered the ruined tower, and aſcended a winding ſtair caſe, that led to a ſmall chamber, which was leſs decayed than the reſt of the building;, and whence ſhe had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide proſpect of ſea and land, that extended below. The ſun was now ſetting on that tract of the Pyrenées, which divides Languedoc from Rouſillon, and, placing herſelf oppoſite to a ſmall grated window, which, like the wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower ſtill, gleamed with the red glow of the weſt, ſhe touched the chords of her lute in ſolemn ſymphony, and then accompanied it with her voice, in one of the ſimple and affecting airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often liſtened in rapture, and which ſhe now adapted to the following lines.

The ſoft tranquillity of the ſcene below, where the evening breeze ſcarely curled the water, of ſwelled the paſſing ſail, that [411] caught the laſt gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all that diſturbed the trembling radiance, conſpired with the tender melody of her lute to lull her mind into a ſtate of gentle ſadneſs, and ſhe ſung the mournful ſongs of paſt times, till the remembrances they awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the lute, over which ſhe drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to proceed.

Though the ſun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected light was fading from their higheſt points, Emily did not leave the watch-tower, but conti⯑nued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a footſtep, at a little diſtance, ſtartled her, and, on looking through the grate, ſhe obſerved a perſon walking below, whom, however, ſoon perceiving to be Monſ. Bon⯑nac, ſhe returned to the quiet thoughtfulneſs his ſtep had interrupted. After ſome time, ſhe again ſtruck her lute, and ſung her fa⯑vourite air; but again a ſtep diſturbed her, [412] and, as ſhe pauſed to liſten, ſhe heard it aſcending the ſtair-caſe of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her ſenſible to ſome degree of fear, which ſhe might not otherwife have felt; for, only a few minutes before, ſhe had ſeen. Monſ. Bonnac paſs. The ſteps were quick and bounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a per⯑ſon entered, whoſe features were veiled in the obſcurity of twilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice of Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, ſhe ſtarted, in terror, aſtoniſhment and doubtful plea⯑ſure, and had ſcarcely beheld him at, her feet, when ſhe ſunk into a ſeat, overcome by the various emotions, that contended at her heart, and almoſt inſenſible to that voice, whoſe earneſt and trembling calls ſeemed as if endeavouring to ſave her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own raſh impatience, in having thus ſurpriſed her: for when he had arrived at the chateau, [413] too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he underſtood, was in the grounds, he went himſelf to ſeek him, when, as he paſſed the tower, he was ſtruck by the ſound of Emily's voice, and immedi⯑ately aſcended.

It was a conſiderable time before ſhe re⯑vived, but, when her recollection returned, ſhe repulſed his attentions, with an air of reſerve, and enquired, with as much diſ⯑pleaſure as it was poſſible ſhe could feel in theſe firſt moments of his appearance, the occaſion of his viſit.

"Ah Emily!" ſaid Valancourt, "that air, thoſe words—alas! I have, then, little to hope—when you ceaſed to eſteem me, you ceaſed alſo to love me!"

"Moſt true, ſir," replied Emily, endea⯑vouring to command her trembling voice; "and if you had valued my eſteem, you would not have given me this new occa⯑ſion for uneaſineſs."

Valancourt's countenance changed ſud⯑denly from the anxieties of doubt to an ex⯑preſſion [414] of ſurpriſe and diſmay: he was ſilent a moment, and then ſaid, "I had been taught to hope for a very different re⯑ception! Is it, then true, Emily, that I have lost your regard, forever? am I to believe, that, though your eſteem for me may return—your affection never can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures me with a ſecond death?"

The voice, in which he ſpoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words ſur⯑priſed her, and, with trembling impatience, ſhe begged that he would explain them.

"Can any explanation be neceſſary?" ſaid Valancourt, "do you not know how cruelly my conduct has been miſrepreſented? that the actions of which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you ſo degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) thoſe actions—I hold in as much contempt and abhorrence as yourſelf? Are you, indeed, ignorant, that Count De Villefort has detected the ſlanders, that have [415] robbed me of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to juſtify to you my former conduct? It is ſurely impoſſible you can be uninformed of theſe circum⯑ſtances, and I am again torturing myſelf with a falſe hope!

The ſilence of Emily confirmed this ſup⯑poſition; for the deep twilight would not allow Valancourt to diſtinguiſh the aſtoniſh⯑ment and doubting joy, that fixed her fea⯑tures. For a moment, ſhe continued unable to ſpeak; then a profound ſigh deemed to give ſome relief to her ſpirits, and ſhe ſaid,

"Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumſtances you have mentioned; the emotion I now ſuffer may aſſure you of the truth of this, and, that, though I had ceaſed to eſteem, I had not taught myſelf entirely to forget you."

"This moment," ſaid Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for ſupport againſt the window—"this moment brings with it a conviction that overpowers me!—I am [416] dear to you then—ſtill dear to you my Emily!"

"Is it neceſſary that I ſhould tell you to:" ſhe replied, "is it neceſſary, that I ſhould ſay—theſe are the firſt moments of joy I have known, ſince your departure, and that they repay me for all thoſe of pain I have ſuffered in the interval?"

"Valancourt ſighed deeply and was un⯑able to reply but as the preſſed her hand to his lips the tears that fell over it ſpoke a language, which could not be miſ⯑taken, and to which words were inade⯑quate.

Emily, ſomewhat tranquillized, pro⯑poſed returning to the chateau, and then, for the firſt time recollected that the Count had invited Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had yet been given. But, while ſhe acknow⯑ledged, this, her heart would not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the poſſibility of his unworthineſs; his look, his voice, his manner, all ſpoke the noble ſincerity, which [417] had formerly diſtinguiſhed him; and ſhe again permitted herſelf to indulge the emo⯑tions of a joy, more ſurpriſing and power⯑ful, than ſhe had ever before experienced.

Neither Emily or Valancourt were con⯑ſcious how they reached the chateau whi⯑ther they might have been transferred by the ſpell of a fairy for any thing they could remember; and it was not till they had reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were other perſons in the world beſides themſelves The count then came forth with ſurpriſe and with the joy⯑fulneſs of pure benevolence to welcome Valancourt and to entreat his forgivenneſs of the injuſtice he had done him ſoon after which Monſ. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which, he and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet.

When the firſt congratulations were over, and the general joy became ſomewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valan⯑court to the library, where a long conver⯑ſation palled between them, in which the [418] latter ſo clearly juſtified himſelf of the cri⯑minal parts of the conduct, imputed to him, and ſo candidly confeſſed and ſo feel ingly lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was confirmed in the belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived ſo many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him to deteſt the follies, which be⯑fore he had only not admired, he did not ſcruple to believe, that he would paſs through life with the dignity of a wiſe and good man, or to entruſt to his care the fu⯑ture happineſs of Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the ſolicitude of a parent. Of this he ſoon informed her, in a ſhort converſation, when Valancourt had left him. While Emily liſtened to a relation of the ſervices, that Valancourt had ren⯑dered Monſ. Bonnac, her eyes overſlowed with tears of pleaſure, and the further con⯑verſation of Count De Villefort perfectly diſſipated every doubt, as to the paſt and fu⯑ture conduct of him, to whom the now re⯑ſtored, [419] without fear, the eſteem and affec⯑tion, with which ſhe had formerly received him.

When they returned to the ſupper-room, the Counteſs and Lady Blanche met Va⯑lancourt with ſincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was ſo much rejoiced to ſee Emily returned to happineſs, as to for⯑get, for a while, that Monſ. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, though he had been expected for ſome hours; but her generous ſympathy was, ſoon after, re⯑warded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from the wounds, re⯑ceived, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenées, the mention of which ſerved to heighten to the parties, who had been involved in it, the ſenſe of their pre⯑ſent happineſs. New congratulations paſſed between them, and round the ſupper-table appeared a group of faces, ſmiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which had in each a different character. The ſmile of [420] Blanche was frank and gay, that of Emily tender and penſive; Valancourt's was rap⯑turous, tender and gay alternately; Monſ. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as he looked on the ſurrounding party, expreſſed the tempered complacency of benevolence; while the features of the Counteſs, Henri, and Monſ. Bonnac, diſ⯑covered fainter traces of animation. Poor Monſ. Dupont did not, by his preſence, throw a ſhade of regret over the company; for when he had diſcovered, that Valan⯑court was not unworthy of the eſteem of Emily, he determined ſeriouſly to endea⯑vour at the conqueſt of his own hopeleſs affection, and had immediately withdrawn from Chateau-le-Blanc—a conduct, which Emily now underſtood, and rewarded with her admiration and pity.

The Count and his gueſts continued to⯑gether till a late hour, yielding to the de⯑lights of ſocial gaiety, and to the ſweets of friendſhip. When Annette heard of the [421] arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had ſome difficulty to prevent her going into the ſupper-room, to expreſs her joy, for ſhe declared, that ſhe had never been ſo re⯑joiced at any accident as this, ſince ſhe had found Ludovico himſelf.

CHAP. XIX.

THE marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated, on the ſame day, and with the ancient baronial magnificence, at Chateau-le-Blanc. The feaſts were held in the great hall of the caſtle, which, on this occaſion, was hung with ſuperb new tapeſtry, repreſent⯑ing the exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; here, were ſeen the Saracens, with their horrible viſors, advancing to battle; and there, were diſplayed the wild [423] ſolemnities of incantation, and the necro⯑mantic feats, exhibited by the magician Jarl before the Emperor. The ſumptuous banners of the family of Villeroi, which had long ſlept in duſt, were once more un⯑furled, to wave over the gothic points of painted caſements; and muſic echoed, in many a lingering cloſe, through every wind⯑ing gallery and colonnade of that vaſt edifice.

As Annette looked down from the cor⯑ridor upon the hall, whoſe arches and windows were illuminated with brilliant feſtoons of lamps, and gazed on the ſplen⯑did dreſſes of the dancers, the coſtly live⯑ries of the attendants, the canopies of pur⯑ple velvet and gold, and liſtened to the gay ſtrains that floated along the vaulted roof, ſhe almoſt fancied herſelf in an en⯑chanted palace, and declared, that ſhe had not met with any place, which charmed her ſo much, ſince ſhe read the fairy tales; nay, that the fairies themſelves, at their [424] nightly revels in this old hall, could diſplay nothing finer; while old Dorothée, as ſhe ſurveyed the ſcene, ſighed, and ſaid, the caſtle looked as it was wont to do in the time of her youth.

After gracing the feſtivities of Chateau⯑le-Blanc, for ſome days, Valancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned to La Vallée, where the faithful Thereſa received them with unſeigned joy, and the pleaſant ſhades welcomed them with a thouſand tender and affecting re⯑membrances; and, while they wandered together over the ſcenes, ſo long inhabited by the late Monſ. and Madame St. Aubert, and Emily pointed out, with penſive af⯑fection, their favourite haunts, her preſent happineſs was heightened, by conſider⯑ing, that it would have been worthy of their approbation, could they have wit⯑neſſed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane tree on the terrace, where he had firſt ventured [425] to declare his love, and where now the re⯑membrance of the anxiety he had then ſuf⯑fered, and the retroſpect of all the dangers and misfortunes they had each encountered, ſince laſt they ſat together beneath its broad branches, exalted the ſenſe of their preſent felicity, which, on this ſpot, ſacred to the memory of St. Aubert, they ſolemnly vowed to deſerve, as far as poſſible, by endeavouring to imitate his benevolence,—by remembering, that ſuperior attainments of every fort bring with them duties of ſuperior exertion,—and by affording to their fellow-beings, together with that portion of ordinary comforts, which proſperity always owes to misfortune, the example of lives paſſed in happy thankfulneſs to GOD, and, therefore, in careful tenderneſs to his crea⯑tures.

Soon after their return to La Vallée, the brother of Valancourt came to congra⯑tulate him on his marriage, and to pay his reſpects to Emily, with whom he was ſo much pleaſed, as well as with the proſpect [426] of rational happineſs, which theſe nuptials offered to Valancourt, that he immediately reſigned to him a part of the rich domain, the whole of which, as he had no family, would of courſe deſcend to his brother, on his deceaſe.

The eſtates, at Tholouſe, were diſpoſed of, and Emily purchaſed of Monſ. Queſ⯑nel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having given Annette a marriage⯑portion, ſhe ſettled her as the houſekeeper, and Ludovico as the ſteward; but, ſince both Valancourt and herſelf preferred the pleaſant and long-loved ſhades of La Vallée to the magnificence of Epourville, they continued to reſide there, paſſing, however, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, in tender reſpect to his me⯑mory.

The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini, ſhe beg⯑ged Valancourt would allow her to reſigh to Monſ. Bonnac; and Valancourt, when [427] ſhe made the requeſt, felt all the value of the compliment it conveyed. The caſtle of Udolpho, alſo, deſcended to the wife of Monſ. Bonnac, who was the neareſt ſurviv⯑ing relation of the houſe of that name, and thus affluence reſtored his long-oppreſſed ſpirits to peace, and his family to com⯑fort.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happineſs, ſuch as that of Valancourt and Emily; to relate, that, after ſuffering under the op⯑preſſion of the vicious and the diſdain of the weak, they were, at length, reſtored to each other—to the beloved landſcapes of their native country,—to the ſecureſt feli⯑city of this life, that of aſpiring to moral and labouring for intellectual improve⯑ment—to the pleaſures of enlightened ſociety, and to the exerciſe of the benevo⯑lence, which had always animated their hearts; while the bowers of La Vallée be⯑came, once more, the retreat of goodneſs, wiſdom and domeſtic bleſſedneſs!

[428] O! uſeful-may it be to have ſhewn, that, though the vicious can ſometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is tranſient and their puniſhment certain; and that innocence, though oppreſſed by injuſtice, ſhall, ſupported by patience, finally triumph over misfortune!

And, if the weak hand, that has re⯑corded, this tale, has, by its ſcenes, be⯑guiled the mourner of one hour of ſorrow, or, by its moral, taught him to ſuſtain it—the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the writer unrewarded.