 Volume 3, Chapter 13, Part B of the Mysteries of Adolfo. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Missy, Guangzhou, China. The Mysteries of Adolfo by Anne Radcliffe. Volume 3, Chapter 13, B. On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in one of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening, and this led him to a mention of Valencor. "'That is a young man of talents,' said he. "'You were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive?' Emily said that she was. "'He was introduced to me at Paris,' said the Count, and I was much pleased with him on our first acquaintance. He paused, and Emily trembled between the desire of hearing more, and the fear of shooing the Count that she felt an interest in the subject. "'May I ask,' said he, at length, how long you have known Missy of Valencor. "'Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question, sir?' said she, and I will answer it immediately. "'Certainly,' said the Count, that is but just, I will tell you my reason. "'I cannot but perceive that Missy of Valencor admires you. In that, however, there is nothing extraordinary. Every person who sees you must do the same. I am above using commonplace compliments I speak with sincerity. What I fear is that he is a favoured admirer.' "'Why do you fear it, sir?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion. "'Because,' replied the Count, I think him not worthy of your favour.' "'Emily, greatly agitated, and treated further explanation. I will give it,' said he, "'if you will believe that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare could induce me to hazard that assertion.' "'I must believe so, sir,' replied Emily. "'But let us rest under these trees,' said the Count, observing the paleness of her countenance. "'Here is a seat. You are fatigued.' "'They sat down, and the Count proceeded. Many young ladies, circumstance as you are, would think my conduct on this occasion, and on so short an acquaintance, impertinent instead of friendly. From what I have observed of your temper and understanding I do not fear such a return from you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me esteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserve to be very happy, and I trust that you will be so.' Emily sighed softly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. "'I am unpleasantly circumstance,' said he, "'but an opportunity of rendering you important service shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you inform me of the manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valencor, if the subject is not too painful?' Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence of her father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate in declaring what he knew that he perceived the violent emotion against which she was contending, and regarding her with a look of tender compassion considered how he might communicate his information with the least pain to his anxious auditor. The Chevalier and my son, said he, were introduced to each other at the table of a brother-officer, at whose house I also met him and invited him to my own whenever he should be disengaged. I did not then know that he had formed an acquaintance with the set of men, a disgrace to their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual debauchery. I know several of the Chevalier's family, resident at Paris, and consider them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to my own. But you are ill. I will leave the subject. No, sir, said Emily. I beg you, will proceed. I am only distressed." Only, said the Count with emphasis. However, I will proceed. I soon learned that these, his associates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation, from which he appeared to have neither the power nor the inclination to extricate himself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table, he became infatuated with play, and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, who assured me that they had remonstrated with him, till they were weary. I afterwards learned that in consideration of his talents for play, which were generally successful, went on opposed by the tricks of villainy, that in consideration of these the party had initiated him into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their profit. "'Impossible!' said Emily, suddenly. But pardon me, sir, I scarcely know what I say. Allow for the distress of my mind. I must indeed—I must believe that you have not been truly informed.' The Chevalier had, doubtless enemies, who misrepresented him. I should be most happy to believe so, replied the Count, but I cannot. Nothing short of conviction and a regard for your happiness could have urged me to repeat these unpleasant reports. Emily was silent. She recollected Valenkor's sayings on the preceding evening, which discovered the pangs of self-approach, and seemed to confirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enough to dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the mere suspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. After a silence the Count said, I perceive, and can allow for, your want of conviction. It is necessary I should give some proof of what I have asserted, but this I cannot do without subjecting one who is very dear to me to danger. "'What is the danger you apprehend?' sir, said Emily. "'If I can prevent it, you may safely confide in my honour. On your honour I am certain I can realise the Count, but can I trust your fortitude? Do you think you can resist the solicitation of a favourite admirer, when he pleads in affliction for the name of one who has robbed him of a blessing?' "'I shall not be exposed to such a temptation, sir,' said Emily, with modest pride, for I cannot favour one whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily give my word.' Tears in the meantime contradicted her first assertion, and she felt that time and effort only could eradicate ineffection, which had been formed on virtuous esteem and cherished by habit and difficulty. "'I will trust you, then,' said the Count, for conviction is necessary to your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained without this confidence. My son has too often been an eyewitness of the chevalier's ill conduct. He was very near being drawn in by it. He was indeed drawn into the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from guilt and destruction. Judge then, madmoselle Sonnelbert, whether a father who had nearly lost his only son to the example of the chevalier, has not, from conviction, reason to warn those whom he esteems, against trusting their happiness in such ham. I have myself seen the chevalier engaged in deep play with men whom I almost shuddered to look upon. If you still doubt, I will refer to you to my son.' "'I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed,' replied Emily, thinking with grief, or what you assert. But the chevalier has perhaps been drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never repeat. If you had known the justice of his former principles, you would allow for my present incredulity.' "'Alas,' observed the Count, it is difficult to believe that which will make us wretched. But I will not soothe you by flattering and false hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how difficult it is also to conquer habit. The chevalier might perhaps reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation, for I fear not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his morals are corrupted, and why should I conceal from you that play is not his only vice? He appears to have a taste for every vicious pleasure.' The Count hesitated and paused. While Emily endeavored to support herself, as with increasing perturbation she expected what he might further say. A long pause of silence ensued during which he was visibly agitated. At length he said, It would be a cruel delicacy that could prevail with me to be silent. And I will inform you that the chevalier's extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons of Paris, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon authority, which I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess, with whom he continued to reside when I left Paris. He paused again, and looking at Emily perceived her countenance change, and that she was falling from the seat. He caught her, but she had fainted, and he called loudly for assistance. They were, however, beyond the hearing of his servants at the chateau, and he feared to leave her while he went thither for assistance. Yet knew not how otherwise to obtain it, till a fountain at no great distance caught his eye, and he endeavored to support Emily against the tree under which she had been sitting while he went thither for water. But again he was perplexed, for he had nothing near him in which water could be brought. But while with increased anxiety he watched her, he thought he perceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life. It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herself supported, not by the Count, but by Valencor, who was observing her with looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone tremulous with his anxiety. At the sound of his well-known voice she raised her eyes but presently closed them, and a faintness again came over her. The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw, but he only sighed heavily and called on the name of Emily as he again held the water that had been brought to her lips. On the Count's repeating his action, and accompanying it with words, Valencor answered him with a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place till she should revive, or to resign her for a moment to the care of any person. In the next instant his conscience seemed to inform him of what had been the subject of the Count's conversation with Emily, and indignation flashed in his eyes. But it was quickly repressed, and succeeded by an expression of serious anguish that induced the Count to regard him with more pity than resentment, and the view of which so much affected Emily when she again revived that she yielded to the weakness of tears. But she soon restrained them, and, exerting her resolution to appear recovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henry, with whom Valencor had entered the garden for their care, and moved towards the chateau without noticing Valencor, who, heart-struck by her manner, exclaimed in a low voice, "'Good God, how have I deserved this? What has been said to occasion this change?' Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened her steps. "'What has thus disordered you, Emily?' said he, as he still walked by her side, "'Give me a few moments' conversation, I entreat you. I am very miserable.'" Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count, who immediately replied that Mademoiselle Saint-Obert was then too much indisposed to attend to any conversation, but that he would venture to promise she would see Monsieur Valencor on the morrow if she was better. Valencor's cheek was crimson. He looked haughtily at the Count, and then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief, and supplication, which she could neither misunderstand or resist, and she said languidly, "'I shall be better to-morrow. And if you wish to accept the Count's permission, I will see you then. See me,' exclaimed Valencor, as he threw a glance of mingled pride and resentment upon the Count, and then see me to recollect himself, he added, "'But I will come, Madame. I will accept the Count's permission.'" When they reached the door of the chateau, he lingered a moment, for his resentment was now fled, and then, with a look so expressive of tenderness and grief that Emily's heart was not proof against it, he bade her good morning, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared. Emily withdue to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as she had seldom known, when she endeavored to recollect all that the Count had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances he himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct toward Valencor. But when she attempted to think, her mind refused to control, and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment she sunk under the conviction that Valencor was no longer the same, whom she had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported her under a fiction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days, but a fallen, a worthless character whom she must teach herself to despise, if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible supposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of conduct such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had been misrepresented by some artful enemy. And there were moments when she even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to suspect that he was influenced by some selfish motive to break her connection with Valencor. But this was the error of an instant only. The Count's character, which she had heard spoken of by Dupont and many other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge and forbade this opposition. Had her confidence indeed been less, there appeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous, and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope that Valencor had been misrepresented to the Count, who had said that he spoke chiefly from his own observation and from his son's experience. She must part from Valencor, therefore, forever. For what of either happiness or tranquility could she expect with a man whose tastes were degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice has become habitual, whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what he once was and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficult for her to despise him. Oh, Valencor, she would exclaim, having been separated for so long, do we meet only to be miserable, only to part forever? Amidst all the tumult of her mind she remembered pertinaciously the seeming candor and simplicity of his conduct on the preceding night, and had she dared to trust her own heart it would have led her to hope much from this. Still, she could not resolve to dismiss him forever without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct. She saw no probability of procuring it, if indeed proof more positive was possible. Something, however, it was necessary to decide upon, and she almost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner with which Valencor should receive her hints concerning his late conduct. Thus passed the hours till dinner time, when Emily, struggling against the pressure of her grief, dried her tears and joined the family at table, where the count preserved towards her the most delicate attention. With the countess and mademoiselle Bayern, having looked for a moment with surprise on her dejected countenance, began as usual to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of her friend, who could only reply by a mournful smile. Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by the Lady Blanche, whose anxious inquiries, however, she found herself quite unequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the subject of her distress. To converse on any topic was now indeed so extremely painful to her that she soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche left her with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she had no power to assuage. Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two, for company, especially that of the countess and mademoiselle Bayern, was intolerable to her, in the present state of her spirit. And in the retirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abyss, she hoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation to the event which she too plainly perceived was approaching. To have lost Velenkor by death, or to have seen him married to a rival, would she thought have given her less anguish than a conviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to himself and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart so long had cherished. These painful reflections were interrupted for a moment, by a note from Velenkor, written in evident distraction of mind in treating that she would permit him to see her on the approaching evening, instead of the following morning, a request which occasioned her so much agitation that she was unable to answer it. She wished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yet shrunk from the interview, and incapable of deciding for herself, she at length sent to beg a few moments' conversation with the count in his library, where she delivered to him the note and requested his advice. After reading it, he said that if she believed herself well enough to support the interview, his opinion was that for the relief of both parties it ought to take place that evening. His affection for you is undoubtedly a very sincere one, added the count, and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable friend, are so ill at ease that the sooner the affair is decided the better. Emily replied therefore to Velenkor that she would see him, and then exerted herself in endeavors to attain fortitude and composure, to bear her through the approaching scene, a scene so inflectingly the reverse of any to which she had looked forward. End of Volume 3, Chapter 13b. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Red Abrus. The Mysteries of Udalfo by Ann Ratliff. Volume 4, Chapter 1. Is all the counsel that we too have shared, the hours that we have spent, when we have chiled the hasty-footed time for parting us, oh, and is all forgot? And will you rend our ancient love a sander? Midsummer Night's Dream. In the evening when Emily was at length informed that Count de Villaforte requested to see her, she guessed that Valencourt was below, and, endeavoring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits, she rose and left the apartment. But on reaching the door of the library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such energy that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned into the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to command her agitated spirits. When she could recall them, she found in the library Valencourt, seated with the Count, who both rose on her entrance, but she did not dare to look at Valencourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair immediately 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 Valencourt threw himself into the 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 least be spared the further torture of suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the 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. Oh, what a meeting is this, exclaimed Valencourt, starting from his seat and pacing the room with hurried steps. What a meeting is this, after our long, long separation. 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 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, Oh, 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 affection? You may remember that yesterday evening I said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candor to believe that when I should request an explanation of your words, you would give it. This explanation is now unnecessary. I understand them too well, but prove, at least, that your candor is deserving of the confidence I give it, when I ask you whether you are conscious of being the same esteemable valent court whom I once loved? Once loved? cried he. The same, the same! He paused in extreme emotion, 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 struggled to overcome the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness which was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger of trusting long to her resolution in the presence of valent court, 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. Valent court, meanwhile, lost an emotion of remorse and grief which he had neither the power or the will to express, sat insensible almost of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast agitated by a convulsive sighs. Spare me the necessity, said Emily, recollecting her fortitude. Spare me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct, which obliged me to break our connection forever. Be must part. I now see you for the last time. Impossible! cried Valent court, 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 heartily, not yours, and I shall inquire by what authority he interferes between 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 determination, 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 should part. Part forever, said Valent 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. Rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness and her tears flowed again. That you, you, Valent court, would ever fall from my esteem. He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no longer deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost it. And then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till overcome by a recollection 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 circumstances of which Count de Villefort had 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 excited. Valent court, returning to the chair beside her at length, said, in a calm voice, it's true I'm fallen, fallen from my own esteem. 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 selfish designs of another person? Would you not otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation? And could you bear, by estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery, 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 Emily, to justify 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 Valent court. Is it possible you can doubt my love? Yes, it is reasonable that you should do so, since you see that I'm less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you than that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily, I'm ruined, irreparably ruined. I'm involved in deaths which I can never discharge. Valent court'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 sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for fear in the suddenness of his feelings 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 conclude the interview. I will not prolong these moments, Shadsy, by a conversation which can answer no good purpose. Valent court, farewell. You are not going, said he, widely interrupting her. You will not leave me thus. You will not abandon me even before 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 necessary we should part. If you wish that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the acknowledgement. Never, never, cried he. I was distracted when I made it. Oh, Emily, this is too much. Though you are not deceived as to my faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation 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 might, in some degree, induce you to consider him as yours. Your friend, said Valencote Hestili, how long has he been your friend that he can so easily make you forget your lover? Was it he who recommended to your favorite the Montseor 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. DuPont perhaps may not long trim over my fallen fortunes. Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of Valencote, said in a tone scarcely audible, for heaven's sake, be reasonable, be composed. Montseor DuPont is not your rival, nor is the count his advocate. You have no rival nor accept yourself an enemy. My heart is rung with anguish, which must increase while your frantic behavior shoes me more than ever, that you are no longer the Valencote I have been accustomed to love. He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his face concealed by his hands, while Emily stood, silent and trembling, wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind. Oh, excess of misery, he suddenly exclaimed, that I can never lament my sufferings without accusing myself, nor remember 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 forever? Oh, why cannot I look back without interruption to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love? The recollection seemed to melt his heart and the frenzy of despair 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 resolve to give up an heart that loves you like mine and heart which, though it has erred, widely erred, is not irretrievable from error? As you well know, it never can 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? Oh, 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 Valencourt, might perhaps again be mine if your affection which nurtured them was unchanged. 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 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'm going, Emily. I'm going to leave you, to leave you forever. As he spoke the last words, his voice trembled, 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 criminal conduct and almost of his follies was obliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief. My fortitude is gone, said Valencote 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. Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavored to believe 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 Valencote. Other considerations, however, 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 her 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 compose her spirits and remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the sensorious remarks of the Countess and her favorite, as well as excite the curiosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible to tranquilize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembrance of the late scene with Valencote, or 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 circumstances 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 disadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to her impossible that he could have been guilty of the depravities reported of him, which, if not consistent with his warmth and impetuousity, were entirely so with his candor and sensibility. Whatever was the criminality which had given rise to the reports, she could not now believe them to be wholly true, not 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 understood not the instability of youthful dispositions when opposed by habit and that professions frequently deceive those who make, as well as those who hear them, she might have yielded to the flattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of valent court, had she not been guided by the superior prudence of the count. He represented to her in a clear light the danger of her present situation, that of listening to promises of amendment made under the influence of strong passion and the slight hope which could attach to a connection whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrieval of ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On these accounts he lamented that Emily had consented to a second 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 interest that she forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history which so lately had excited her curiosity, but which Dorothea 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 valent court, 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 percepts which she had received from a 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 forsook her and when, remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible that she could announce valent court. His reformation then appeared certain, the arguments of Count de Villefort, where forgotten, she readily believed all she wished and was willing to encounter any evil rather than that of an immediate separation. Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection and reason and she rose in the morning with a mind weakened and irresolute and a frame trembling with illness. End of Volume 4, Chapter 1 Volume 4, Chapter 2 The Mysteries of Udolfo This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, all to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. The Mysteries of Udolfo by Anne Radcliffe Volume 4, Chapter 2 Come weep with me past hope, past cure, past help. Romeo and Juliet Valent Court, meanwhile, suffered the torches of remorse and despair. The sight of Emily had renewed all the outdoor with which he first loved her and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the passing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set out for Languadock. 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. That he lamented only the delay which his ill conduct must give to their marriage and did not foresee that the information could induce her to break their connection forever. While the prospect of this separation overwhelmed his mind before, stung with self-reproach, he awaited their second interview in a state little short of distraction, yet was still inclined to hope that his pleadings 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 a game conversing with her at Velencourt. For he perceived the extreme distress of her mind and feared more than ever that her fortitude would desert her. Emily, having dismissed the messenger, the Count returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his fear of Velencourt's entreaties and again pointing out to her the length and misery that must insure. If she could refuse to encounter some present uneasiness, his repeated arguments could indeed alone have protected her from the affection she still felt for Velencourt and she resolved to be gubbled by them. The hour of interview at length arrived. Emily went to it, at least, with composure of manner, but Velencourt was so much agitated that he could not speak for several minutes and his first words were alternately those of lamentation entreaty and self-reproach. 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 connection "'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 resolution "'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 a toned strength of mine "'to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded it.' He paused the moment while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which came to her eyes. She would have said, "'You speak now, as you were, want to do?' But she checked herself. "'Forgive me, Emily,' said he. "'All the sufferings I have occasioned you, "'and sometimes, when you think of the wretched villain court, "'remember 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 frenzy of despair, "'when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude. "'And to terminate an interview, "'which only seemed to increase the distress of both. "'Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, "'villain court struggled, once more, "'to overcome his own feelings and to soothe hers. "'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he, "'shall in future be my protection. "'Oh, never again will example, "'or temptation have power to seduce me to evil, "'exalted as I shall be by the recollection "'of your grief for me.' "'Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. "'We are now parting forever,' said she. "'But if my happiness is dear to you, "'you will always remember that nothing can contribute to it "'more than to believe that you have recovered "'your own esteem.' "'Villain court took her hand. "'His eyes were covered with tears, "'and the farewell he would have spoken was lost in size. "'After a few moments, "'Emily said, with difficulty and emotion, "'fairwell, villain court, 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 much,' exclaimed villain court, "'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, "'during which Emily wept in silence, "'and villain court 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 then added, in a solemn voice, "'which frequently trembled with the agitation of his heart, "'fairwell, Emily, "'you will always be the only object of my tenderness. "'Sometimes you will think of the unhappy villain court, "'and it will be with pity, "'though it may not be with esteem. "'Oh, 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 lamented. "'I must not intrude longer upon your patience, "'or I shall relapse into despair.' "'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, "'a press 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 voice "'at the countess in the garden. "'And her attention, being then awakened, "'the first object, which struck her sight, "'was the vacant chair where Vellancourt had sat. "'The tears, which had been, for some time, "'repressed by the kind of astonishment "'that followed his departure, "'now came to her relief, "'and she was, at length, "'sufficiently composed to return to her own room.'" End of Volume 4, Chapter 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, not to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Francesca. The Mysteries of Udalfo by Anne Redcliffe. Volume 4, Chapter 3. This is no mortal business, nor no sound that the earth owes. Shakespeare 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 depredation, having exceeded their usual limits and reached an extent at which neither the timidity of the then commercial senate of Venice, nor the hope of his occasional assistance would permit them to connive. The same effort, it was resolved, should complete the suppression of his power and the correction of his outrages. While a core of considerable strength was upon the point of receiving orders to march for Udalfo, a young officer prompted partly by resentment for some injury, received from Montoni, 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 Udalfo rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after some tedious operations. That Montoni had lately shown how capable he was of adding to its strength all the advantages 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 Udalfo without its 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 Udalfo would require, upon the attack of a handful of Benditi. The object of the expedition 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 approaching the fortress, with the secrecy consistent with a march of smaller bodies of troops to take advantage either of the treachery or negligence of some of his party to rush unexpectedly upon the whole, even in the castle of Udalfo. This advice was seriously attended to and the officer who gave it received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His first efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the neighbourhood of Udalfo he waited till he had secured the assistance of several of the Conditieri, of whom he found none that he addressed unwilling to punish the 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 affected. Having returned with his party who received the watchword and other assistance from their friends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised by one division who had been directed to their apartment while the other maintained the slight combat which preceded the surrender of the whole garrison. Among the persons seized with Montoni was Orsino the assassin who had joined him on his first arrival at Udalfo and whose concealment had been made known to the Senate by Count Morano after the unsuccessful attempt of the letter to carry off Emily. It was indeed partly for the purpose of capturing this man by whom one of the Senate had been murdered that the expedition was undertaken and its success was so acceptable to them that Morano was instantly released notwithstanding the political suspicion which Montoni by his secret accusation had excited against him. The celerity and ease with which this whole transaction was completed prevented it from attracting curiosity or even from obtaining a place in any of the published records of that time so that Emily, who remained in long dark was ignorant of the defeat and signal humiliation of the late persecutor. Her mind was now occupied with sufferings which no effort of reason had yet been able to control. Count Deville Fall, who sincerely attempted whatever benevolence he 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 possible from the shrewd inquiries and critical conversation of the Countess. He often invited her to make excursions with him and his daughter during which he conversed entirely on questions suitable to her chase without appearing to consult it and thus endeavoured gradually to withdraw her from the subject of her grief and to wake 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 a hard expender to her young friend Blanche as to a sister whose kindness and simplicity compensated for the want of her more brilliant qualities. It was long before she could sufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt to listen to the story promised by Old Dorothy concerning which her curiosity had once been so deeply interested but Dorothy at length reminded her of it and Emily desired that she would come that night to her chamber. Still her thoughts were employed by considerations which weakened her curiosity and Dorothy's tap at the door after twelve surprised her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. "'I'm come at last, lady,' said she. "'I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shape 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 spirit before she entered upon the subject that brought her thither. "'Alas,' said Dorothy. "'It is thinking of that, I believe, that it should up me so. In my way hither, too, I passed the chamber where my dear lady died and everything was so still and gloomy about me that I almost fancied I saw her as she appeared upon her deathbed. Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothy who went on. It is about twenty years since my lady Marchioness came abroad to the chateau. "'Oh, I will remember how she looked when she came into the great hall where we servants were all assembled welcome-head, and how happy my Lord the Marquis seemed. Ah, who would have thought then? But, as I was saying, Mamso, 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 entertainment, and there were such gay doings that have never been in the chateau since. I was younger, Mamso, than I am now, and was as gay as the best of them. I remember I danced with Philip the butler in a pink gown with yellow ribbons and a coiff not such as they wear now, but plated 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, Doris said Emily, you was telling me of her. Oh 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 matter, 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 noble man, Orelse Chevalier, that she liked better, and that was very fond of her, and she fretted 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 complained, and she used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good humour that my heart has often aped 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 Chevaliers that visited the chateau there was one that I always thought seemed just suited for my lady. He was so courteous yet so spirited, and there was such a grace as it were in all he did or said. I always observed that whenever he had been there the maquis 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 certain. What was the Chevalier's name, Dorothy, said Emily? Why, that I will not tell even to you, Mamzell, for evil may come of it. I once heard from a person who was since dead that the Marchioness was not in law the wife of the maquis 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 maquis was most out of humour as I thought when the Chevalier spoke off had been at the chateau and at last his ill treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any visitors at the castle and made her live almost by herself. I was a constant attendant and saw all she suffered, but still she never complained. After Metis 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 feared it was worse than that. Worse, Dorothy, said Emily, can that be possible? I feared it was so, madam. There were strange appearances, but I will only tell what happened. My lord, the maquis, Hush, Dorothy, what sounds were those? said Emily. Dorothy 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 Dorothy solemnly must ever bring music, that is surely the music of one. Emily, as the sounds grew nearer, knew them to be the same she had formally heard at the time of her father's death and whether it was the remembrance that now revived that melancholy event or that she was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain that she was so much affected that she had nearly fainted. I think I once told you, madam, said Dorothy, that I first heard this music soon after my lady's death. I can't remember the night. Huck, 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 tough the tops were visible upon the clear horizon while every other feature of the scene was involved in the nightshade, which, however, allowed the iron indistinct view of some objects in the garden below. As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe upon the obscurity beneath and then upon the cloudless arch above, enlightened only by the staff, Dorothy in a low voice, resumed your narrative. I was saying, ma'am, that I well remember when first I heard that music. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had set up later than usual and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking a great deal about my poor mistress and of the sad scene I had lately witnessed. The chateau was quite still and I was in the chamber at a good distance from the rest of the servant and this were 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 listen often, wishing to hear a sound in the chateau for you know, ma'am, well, when one can hear people moving one does not so much mind about one's fear. But all the servants were gone to bed and I set thinking and thinking till I was almost afraid to look around 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 music. It seemed just at my window and I shall never forget what I felt. I had no 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 lifetime and to be sure she had a very fine voice. It had made me cry to hear her many a time when she had sat in her oriole of an evening playing upon her lute such sad songs and singing so. Oh, 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 window open when it was summer time till it was quite dark and when I have gone in to shut it she has hardly seemed to know what how it was. But as I said Madam Continuedority when first I heard the music that came just now I thought it was my late lady and I have often thought so again when I have heard it I have listened. Sometimes many months have gone by but still it has returned. It is extraordinary observed Emily that no person has yet discovered the musician. I, Mumzel, if it had been anything earthly it would have been discovered long ago but who could have courage to follow a spirit and if they have what good could it do for spirits you know, Mum can take any shape or no shape and they will be here one minute and the next in quite a different place. Pray resume your story of the March nest said Emily and acquaint me with the manner of her death. I will, Mum, said Dorothy but shall we leave the window. 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 were speaking of my Lord the Marquis when the music interrupted us. Yes, Madam, my Lord the Marquis became 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 bedside I was shocked to see her countenance. It was so changed. She looked pitiously up at me and desired 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 forget his look as I went. When I returned I ventured to remind my Lord about sending for a doctor for I suppose he had forgot to do so in his grief but my lady said it was then too late. But my Lord so far from thinking so seemed to think lighter for disorder till she was ceased with such terrible pains so I never shall forget her shriek. My Lord then sent off a man and horse for the doctor and walked about the room and all over the chateau in the greatest distress. And I stayed by my dear lady and did what I could to ease her suffering. She had intervals 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. Oh I shall never forget what the scene passed. I hardly bear to think of it now. My Lord was almost distracted for my lady behaved with such goodness and took such pains to comfort him that if he ever had suffered suspicion to enter his head he must now have been convinced that 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. We then got my Lord out of the room. He went into his library and threw himself on the floor and there he stayed and would hear no reason that was talked to him. When my lady recovered she inquired 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, Mumzel and she went off as peacefully as a child for all the violence of a disorder was passed. Dorothy Paulson wept. Emily wept with her for she was much affected by the goodness of the late marchingness and by the meek patience with which she had suffered. When the doctor came resumed Dorothy alas he came too late. He appeared greatly shocked to see if soon after did her death a frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the attendants out of the room he asked me several lot questions about the marchingness particularly concerning the manner in which she had been seized and he often 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 neighbourhood but nobody dared to make any steer 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 mamza all my lord's vassals followed 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 maquis I never saw anybody so melancholy as he was afterwards and sometimes you would be in such fits of violence that we almost thought he had lost 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 walls. I never saw him after for he would not return to the chateau though it is such a fine place and never finished those fine rooms 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 machinese appears extraordinary said Emily who was anxious to know more than she dared to ask. Yes madam replied Dorothy 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 machi die? In the north of France I believe ma'am Zelle replied Dorothy 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 had such strange noises sometimes after my lady's death 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 history and all my thoughts and you have promised no never to give the least hint about it. I have said Emily and I will be faithful to my promised Dorothy what you have told has interested me more than you can imagine I only wish I could prevail upon you to tell the name of the chivalier whom you thought so deserving of the machinese. Dorothy however steadily refused to do this and then returned to the notice of Emily's likeness to the late machinese. There is another picture of her energy hanging in the room of the suite which was shut up it was drawn as I have heard before she was married in as much more like you than the miniature when Emily expressed a strong desire to see this Dorothy 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 Dorothy seemed to consider much and then she owned that she should feel less and if she went into them with Emily first than otherwise and at length promised to show the picture the night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the narrative of the scenes which had passed from those apartments to wish to visit them at this hour but she requested that Dorothy would return on the following night when they were not likely to be observed and conduct her visit besides her wish to examine the portrait she felt a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber in which Marchioness had died and which Dorothy had said remained with a bed and furniture just as when the corpse was removed for interment the solemn emotions 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 those depressions but perhaps she yielded too much to her melancholy inclination and lamented the misfortune which no virtue of her own could have taught her to avoid though no effort of reason could make her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him whom she had once esteemed and loved Dorothy promised to return on the following night with the keys of the chambers and then wished Emily good repose and departed Emily however continued at the window musing upon the melancholy fate of the Marchioness having an awful expectation for a return of the music but the stillness of the night remained long unbroken except by the murmuring sounds of the woods as they waved in the breeze and then by the distant bell of the convent striking one she now withdrew from the window and as she sat at her bedside indulging melancholy reveries which the loneliness of the hour assisted the stillness was suddenly interrupted not by music very uncommon sounds that seemed to come either from the rumour joining her own or from one below the terrible catastrophe that had been related to her together with the mysterious circumstances said to have sinned the curd and the chateau had so much shocked her spirit that she now sank for a moment under the weakness of superstition the sounds however did not return and she retired to forget and sleeve the disaster story she had heard End of Volume 4, Chapter 3 On the next night about the same hour as before Dorothy came to Emily's chamber 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 forming 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 Dorothy was anxious to avoid since it might excite inquiry and raise reports such as would displease the Count she therefore requested that Emily would wait half an hour before the ventured forth that they might be certain all the servants were gone to bed it was nearly one before the chateau was perfectly still or Dorothy thought it prudently of the chamber in this interval her spirit seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance 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 solemnity and less of fear from the silence into which reflection and expectation had thrown them they at length roused themselves and left the chamber Dorothy 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 staircase 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 that ran round the great hall and into which the chambers of the Count Countess and the Lady Blanche opened and from thence descending the chief staircase 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 staircase old Dorothy here paused and looked around let us listen said she if anything is stirring Memswell do you hear any voice then said Emily there certainly is no person up in the chateau besides ourselves no Memswell said Dorothy 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 oh Memswell 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 top of the staircase Dorothy applied the key to the lock ah said she as she endeavored to turn it so many years have passed since this was opened that I fear it will not move Emily was more successful and they presently entered a spacious and ancient chamber alas exclaimed Dorothy as she entered the last time I passed through this door I followed my poor lady's corpse Emily struck with a 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 enriched in the remains of faded magnificence let us rest here a while madame said Dorothy faintly we are going into the chamber where my lady died that door opens into it ah Memswell why did you persuade me to come Emily drew one of the massy armchairs with which the apartment was furnished and begged Dorothy would sit down and try to compose her spirits how the sight of this place brings all that passed formally to my mind said Dorothy it seems as if it was but yesterday since all that sat affair happened hark what noise is that said Emily Dorothy half starting from her chair looked round the apartment and they listened everything remaining still the old woman spoke again upon the subject of her sorrow this saloon Memswell was in my lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau and it was fitted up according to her own taste all this grand furniture but you can now hardly see what it is for the dust and our light is none of the best ah how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time all this grand furniture came from Paris and was made after the fashion of some in the Louvre there except those large glasses and they came from some outlandish place and that rich tapestry how the colors are faded already since I saw it last I understood that was twenty years ago observed Emily they're about madame said Dorothy 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 that exhibited and discovered by verses in the provincial tongue wrought underneath each scene that it exhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances Dorothy Spirits being now more composed she rose and unlocked the door that led into the late Marcianes apartment and Emily passed into a lofty chamber hung round with dark eras and so spacious that the lamp she held up did not show its extent while Dorothy when she entered had dropped into a chair where sighing deeply she scarcely trusted herself with the view of a scene so affecting to her it was some time before Emily perceived through the dusk the bed on which the Marcianes was said to have died when advancing to the upper end of the room she discovered the high canopy tester of dark green damask with the curtains descending 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 shuttered 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 horrors she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Antoni in the turret chamber of Udolfo her spirits fainted and she was turning from the bed when Dorothy, who had now reached it exclaimed holy virgin me thinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall as when last I saw her Emily shocked by this exclamation looked involuntarily again within the curtains but the blackness of the pall only appeared while Dorothy was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed and presently tears brought her summer leaf ah said she after she had wept a while 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 recollections said Emily let us go show me the picture you mentioned if it will not too much affect you it hangs in the orial said Dorothy 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 Marcianes alas there she is memswell said Dorothy pointing to a portrait of the lady there is her very self just as she looked when she came first to the chateau you see madame she was all blooming like you then and so soon to be cut off while Dorothy spoke Emily was attentively 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 characterized the miniature pray memswell stand beside the picture that I may look at you together said Dorothy who when the request was complied with exclaimed again at the resemblance Emily also as she gazed upon it thought she had somewhere seen a person very like it though she could not now recollect who this was in this closet were many memorials of the departed Marcianes a robe and several articles of her dress were scattered upon the chairs as if they had just been thrown off on the floor were a pair of black satin slippers and on the dressing table a pair of gloves and a long black veil which as Emily took it up to examine she perceived was dropping to pieces with age ah said Dorothy observing the veil my lady's hand laid it there it has never been moved since Emily shuttering immediately laid it down again I will remember seeing her take it off continued Dorothy it was on the night before her death when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded 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 Dorothy wept again and then taking up the veil through it suddenly over Emily who shuttered to find it wrapped round her descending even to her feet and as she endeavored to throw it off Dorothy entreated that she would keep it on for one moment I thought added she like you would look to my dear mistress in that veil may your life Mimswell be a happier one than hers Emily having disengaged herself from the veil laid it again upon the dressing table and surveyed the closet where every object on which her eye fixed seemed to speak of the Marchioness in a large oracle window of painted glass stood a table with the silver crucifix and a prayer brook open and my lord with emotion what Dorothy had mentioned concerning her custom 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 casually placed there by the hand that had so often awakened it this is a sad forlorn place said Dorothy 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 remain just as they did when my lady was removed for internment while Dorothy spoke Emily was still looking on the lute which was a Spanish one and remarkably large and then was a hesitating hand she took it up and passed her fingers over the cords they were out of tune but uttered a deep and full sound Dorothy 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 Oriole and perceiving it was my ladies 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 sang a Vesper hymn so soft and so solemn and her voice trembled as it were and then she would stop for a moment and wipe away her tears and go on again lower than before I had often listened to my lady but never heard anything 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 I and there it lies open still pray let us leave the Oriole memswell at a Dorothy this is a heartbreaking 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 and the partial gleam which the lamp threw into it thought she saw something glide along into the obscure part of the room her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene where it is probable this circumstance whether real or imaginary would not have affected her in the degree it did but she endeavored to conceal her emotion from Dorothy who, however, observing her countenance change inquired 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 appeared this terror increased and too faint to support herself she sat down on the side of the bed Dorothy believing that she was only affected by a consideration of the melancholy catastrophe which had happened on this spot endeavored to chair 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 curtain falls upon the bed how well I remember her look at the time death was in it I can almost fancy I see her now there she lay menswell her face was upon the pillow there this black counter pain 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 countenance of which Dorothy spoke the edge of the white pillow only appeared above the blackness of the pile but as her eyes wandered over the pile itself she fancied she saw it move without speaking she caught Dorothy'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 pile slowly lifted and fall again Emily attempted to go but Dorothy stood fixed it's only the wind that waves it menswell we have left all the doors open see how the air waves the lamp too it is only the wind she had scarcely uttered these words when the pile was more violently agitated than before but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terror 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 pile moved again 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 staircase Dorothy threw open a chamber door where some of the female servants slept and sunk breathlessly on the bed while Emily deprived of all presence of mind made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion of her terror from the astonished servants and though Dorothy, when she could speak endeavored 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 Dorothy 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 Dorothy attested their truth having now mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber she asked the housekeeper whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened by which a person might secretly have entered the apartments Dorothy 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 always found them fastened it was therefore impossible she added that any person could have got admittance into the apartments and if they could it was very improbable 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 the design to frighten them and while they were in the Oriole had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed Dorothy 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 effectively have excluded every person except themselves from the chambers and she now persisted in affirming that the ghastly countenance she had seen was nothing human but some dreadful apparition Emily was very solemnly affected of whatever nature might be the appearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fate of the deceased Marcianes was a truth not to be doubted and this unaccountable circumstance occurring in the very scene of her sufferings affected Emily's imagination to which after having detected the fallacies at Udolfo she might not have yielded had she been ignorant of the unhappy story related by the housekeeper hers she now solemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence of this night and to make light of the terror 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 meanwhile let us watch the event in silence Dorothy readily acquiesced but she now recollected that she had left all the doors of the north suite of rooms open and not have encouraged to return alone to lock even the outer one Emily after some effort so far conquered her own fears that she offered to accompany her to the foot of the back staircase and to wait there while Dorothy ascended whose resolution being reassured by this circumstance she consented to go and they left Emily's apartment together no sound disturbed the stillness as they passed along the halls and galleries but on reaching the foot of the back staircase Dorothy's resolution failed again having however paused a moment to listen and no sound being heard above she ascended leaving Emily below and scarcely suffering her eye to glance in the first chamber she fastened the door which shut up the whole suite of apartments and returned to Emily as they stepped along the passage leading into the great hall a sound of lamentation was heard which seemed to come from the hall itself and they stopped in new alarm to listen when Emily presently distinguished 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 of 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 consented that she should remain in her room during the night End of Volume 4, Chapter 4 The Mysteries of Udolfo by Ann Radcliffe Volume 4, Chapter 5 Thompson 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 uncannable 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 perceiving that it was productive of serious evil in the confusion it occasioned among his household he forbade any person to repeat it on pain of punishment The arrival of a party of his friends soothed through his thoughts entirely from this subject and his servants now had little leisure 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 look round the room the door murmured along the passage and refused to go singly to any part of the castle On these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure when she told not only of all the wonders she had witnessed but of all that she had imagined in the castle of Udolfo with the story of strange disappearance of Senora Laurentini she made no trifling impression on the mind of her attentive auditors her suspicions concerning Montoni she would also have freely disclosed and had not Ludovico who was now in the service of the Count prudently checked her locacity whenever it pointed to that subject Among the visitors of the Chateau was the Baron d'Ain-Saint-Foy an old friend of the Count and his son, the Chevalier-Saint-Foy a sensible and amiable young man who having in the preceding years seen the Lady Blanche at Paris had become her declared admirer the friendship which the Count had long entertained for his father and the equality of their circumstances made him secretly approve of the connections 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 to the Baron, his father to claim the reward of a steady affection 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 splendor the pavilion in the woods was fitted up and frequented in the fine evenings as a supper room when the hour usually concluded with the concert at which the Count and Countess who were scientific performers and the Cheviets, Henri and Sainte-Foy with the Lady Blanche and Emily whose voices and fine taste compensated for the want of more skillful 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 preceded from the pavilion at any other period these parties would have been delightful to Emily but her spirits were now oppressed with the melancholy which she perceived that no kind of what is called amusement had power to dissipate and which the tender and frequently pathetic melody of these concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree she was particularly fond of walking in the woods that hung upon 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 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 an oval tree and of which many lofty branches still flourished, united with beach 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 watchtower 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 the 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 frequently also she visited the watchtower which commanded the entire prospect and when she leaned against its broken walls and thought to a valencourt 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 neighboring chateau one evening she lingered here to a late hour she had sat on the steps of the building watching in tranquil melancholy the gradual effect of evening over the extensive prospect till the gray waters of the Mediterranean and the massy woods were almost the only features of the scene that remained visible when as she gazed alternately 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 song of the evening hour last of the hours that track the fading day I move along the realms of twilight air and hear remote the choral song decay of sister nymphs who dance around his car then as I follow through the azure void his partial splendor from my straining eye makes in the depths of space my only guide his faint ray dawning on the farthest sky save that sweet lingering strain of gayer hours whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes while mortals on the green earth own its powers as downward on the evening gale it floats when fades along the west the sun's last beam as weary to the nether world glows and mountain summits catch the purple gleam and slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal and o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews and every favorite herb and flower to heal and all their fragrance on the air diffuse where I move a tranquil pleasure rains or all the scene the dusky tints and that forests wild and mountains stretching plains and people towns in soft confusion blend wide o'er the earth I waft the freshening wind low breathing through the woods and twilight veil in whispers soft that woo the pensive mind of him who loves my lonely steps to hail his tender otun reed I watched to hear stealing its sweetness or soothing ocean's wave when storms are near or swelling in the breeze from distant hill I wake the fairy elves who shun the light when from their blossoms beds they slyly peep and spy my pale star leading on the night forth to their games and revelry they leap send all the prison's sweets abroad in air to their cell then to the shores and moonlight brooks repair till the high larks their mountain carols swell the woodnames hail my airs in temperate shade with diddy soft and light sportive dance on river margin of some barry glade they stretch their fresh buds as my steps advance but swift I pass and day's last crimson vestige fades apace down the steep west I fly from midnight's shroud the moon was now rising out of the sea she watched its gradual progress the extending line of radians sit through upon the waters the sparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered and the wood tops and the battlements of the watchtower at whose foot she was sitting in her place Emily's spirits were in harmony with this scene as she sat meditating sound stole by her in the air which she immediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly heard at midnight and the emotion of awe which she felt was not on mix with terror when she considered her remote and lonely situation the sounds drew nearer and must have taken toward the chateau and she awaited the event in trembling expectation the sounds continued 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 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 servants who were sent to search for her and when she entered the supper room where he sat with Henri and Blanche approached 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 circumstances she had witnessed a few nights before that she had scarcely courage to remain 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 where she was disturbed 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 the door with a violence that threatened to burst it open she called loudly to know who was there but received no answer though at intervals she still thought she heard something like a low moaning fear deprived her of the power to move soon after she heard 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 without 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 assisted to restore her when this girl had recovered her speech she affirmed that as she was passing up the back staircase 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 appearance it stood for a moment in the corner of the landing place which she was approaching and then gliding up the stairs vanished at the door of the apartment that had been lately opened she heard afterwards a hollow sound then the devil has got a key to that apartment said Dorothy for it could be nobody but he I locked the door myself the girl springing down the stairs and passing up the great staircase had run with a faint scream until she reached the gallery where she fell groaning at Emily's door gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned Emily tried to make her ashamed of her fears but the girl persisted in saying that she had seen an apparition till she went to her own room whether she was accompanied by all the servants present except Dorothy who at Emily's request remained with her during the night Emily was perplexed and Dorothy was terrified and mentioned many occurrences of former times which had long since confirmed her superstitions among these according to her belief she had once witnessed an appearance 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 going to ascend the stairs with Emily in 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 Dorothy communicated which occasioned her much thought and perplexity from this night the terror of the servants increased to such an excess that several of them determined to leave the chateau and requested their discharge of the count who if he had any faith in the subject of their alarm thought proper to disemble it and anxious to avoid the inconvenience that threatened him employed ridicule and then argument to convince them they had nothing to apprehend from supernatural agency but fear had rendered their minds inaccessible to reason and it was now that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for the kindness he had received from the count the offering to watch during a night in this suite of the rooms reputed to be haunted he feared he said no spirits 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 Annette 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 persevere in your resolution I will accept your offer and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded 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 that I may be equal to my enemy if he should appear your sword cannot defend you against a ghost replied the count giving a glance of irony upon the other servants neither can bars or bolts for a spirit can glide through a keyhole as easily as through a door give me a sword my lord count 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 knight in the Chateau since your boldness will certainly for this night at least confine all the malice of the spectre to yourself 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 Emily was surprised and concerned when she heard of his intention and was frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the north apartments to the count she did 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 Dorothy had entrusted her and which must have been mentioned with the late occurrence an excuse for her having so privately visited the north apartments kept her entirely silent on the subject of her apprehension and she tried only to soothe Annette who held that Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed and who was much less affected by Emily's consolidatory efforts than by the manner of old Dorothy who often as she exclaimed Ludovico sighed and threw up her eyes to heaven and of volume 4 chapter 5