CHAPTER IX

Thus on the chill Lapponian’s dreary land,

For many a long month lost in snow profound,

When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,

And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;

From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,

Torrents are hurl’d, green hills emerge, and lo,

The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown’d;

Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;

And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant’s heart o’erflow.

BEATTIE

Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico could

only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the

apartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom

they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his

countrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of

Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except

that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining

corridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had

prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her

present repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not

wish to leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty

concerning Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any

sacrifice of her own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to

make her escape probable.

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being

admitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a

soldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him on

the following night. He was not deceived in his hope; for, under

pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison,

though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel the

real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with

the prisoner a very short one.

Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised

to accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after

several hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having then

uttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitated

in trembling expectation. “The Chevalier would not entrust me with his

name, Signora,” replied Ludovico; “but, when I just mentioned yours, he

seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as I

expected.” “Does he then remember me?” she exclaimed.

“O! it is Mons. Valancourt,” said Annette, and looked impatiently at

Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: “Yes, lady,

the Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very

great regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then

enquired how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you

ordered me to speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but

the second I did; and then he went off into his ecstasies again. I was

afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door.”

“But how does he look, Ludovico?” interrupted Emily: “is he not

melancholy and ill with this long confinement?”—“Why, as to melancholy,

I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemed in

the finest spirits I ever saw anybody in, in all my life. His

countenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was very

well; but I did not ask him.” “Did he send me no message?” said Emily.

“O yes, Signora, and something besides,” replied Ludovico, who searched

his pockets. “Surely, I have not lost it,” added he. “The Chevalier

said, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was

going to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered the

room, but not before he had give me this.” Ludovico then drew forth a

miniature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand,

and perceived to be a portrait of herself—the very picture, which her

mother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallée.

Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico

proceeded—“‘Tell your lady,’ said the Chevalier, as he gave me the

picture, ‘that this has been my companion, and only solace in all my

misfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I

sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I

would not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that

I now part with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her

hands. Tell her—’ Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the

Chevalier said no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an

interview for him with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had

of prevailing with the guard to assist me, he said, that was not,

perhaps, of so much consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to

bring back your answer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to

do then. So this, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed.”

“How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?” said Emily: “but,

indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalier

again?” “That is uncertain, Signora,” replied he. “It depends upon who

stands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, from

whom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber.”

“I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,” resumed Emily, “how very much

interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so,

tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments he

wished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer—” She paused.

“But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?” said Ludovico. “Most

certainly I will,” replied Emily. “But when, Signora, and where?” “That

must depend upon circumstances,” returned Emily. “The place, and the

hour, must be regulated by his opportunities.”

“As to the place, mademoiselle,” said Annette, “there is no other place

in the castle, besides this corridor, where _we_ can see him in safety,

you know; and, as for the hour,—it must be when all the Signors are

asleep, if that ever happens!” “You may mention these circumstances to

the Chevalier, Ludovico,” said she, checking the flippancy of Annette,

“and leave them to his judgment and opportunity. Tell him, my heart is

unchanged. But, above all, let him see you again as soon as possible;

and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very

anxiously look for you.” Having then wished her good night, Ludovico

descended the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep,

for joy now rendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief.

Montoni and his castle had all vanished from her mind, like the

frightful vision of a necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in

fairy scenes of unfading happiness:

As when, beneath the beam

Of summer moons, the distant woods among,

Or by some flood, all silver’d with the gleam,

The soft embodied Fays thro’ airy portals stream.

A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the

sentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide,

and he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. In

this interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of what was

passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals more

alarming than either; while from some circumstances, which he

mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever to release

her, but greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning her,—such as

she had formerly dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned in the

conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at those

times, they were frequently in contention. Montoni had lost large sums

to Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designing

her to be a substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that he

had formerly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning

herself, after the latter had done him some signal service, she knew

not how to account for these contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi.

The cause of them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for

she thought she saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her

entreaties to Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner

again, were more urgent than ever.

At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier,

who had directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom

he had already received some instances of kindness, and who had

promised to permit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the

ensuing night, when Montoni and his companions should be engaged at

their carousals. “This was kind, to be sure,” added Ludovico: “but

Sebastian knows he runs no risk in letting the Chevalier out, for, if

he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of the castle, he must be

cunning indeed. But the Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to you

immediately, and to beg you would allow him to visit you, this night,

if it was only for a moment, for that he could no longer live under the

same roof, without seeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention,

for it must depend on circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and

the place he desired you would appoint, as knowing which was best for

your own safety.”

Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting

Valancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer to

Ludovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she saw

none, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her own

apartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the apprehension of

meeting any of Montoni’s guests, on their way to their rooms; and she

dismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now that a serious

danger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled,

therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at that

hour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should

judge safest: and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval in a

tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never, since her

residence in the castle, had she watched, with so much pleasure, the

sun set behind the mountains, and twilight shade, and darkness veil the

scene, as on this evening. She counted the notes of the great clock,

and listened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed the watch,

only to rejoice, that another hour was gone. “O, Valancourt!” said she,

“after all I have suffered; after our long, long separation, when I

thought I should never—never see you more—we are still to meet again!

O! I have endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not

sink beneath this joy!” These were moments, when it was impossible for

her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary

interests;—even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates,

which would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for life,

threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. The idea of

Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her

heart.

At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if

any noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and

laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the Signor

and his guests were at the banquet. “They are now engaged for the

night,” said she; “and Valancourt will soon be here.” Having softly

closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often

went to the casement to listen for the lute; but all was silent, and,

her agitation every moment increasing, she was at length unable to

support herself, and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she

detained, was, in the meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily heard

scarcely anything she said, and having at length risen to the casement,

she distinguished the chords of the lute, struck with an expressive

hand, and then the voice, she had formerly listened to, accompanied it.

Now rising love they fann’d, now pleasing dole

They breath’d in tender musings through the heart;

And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,

As when seraphic hands a hymn impart!

Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain ceased,

she considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave the

prison. Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;—they were the

light, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as they

approached, but opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meet

Valancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger.

His voice—his countenance instantly convinced her, and she fainted

away.

On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was

watching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tenderness

and anxiety. She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked no

questions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself from his arms;

when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise and

disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annette

soon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. “O, sir!” said

she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; “O, sir! you are not the other

Chevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he! O

Ludovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never recover

it—never!” The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted to

speak, but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against his

forehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other end

of the corridor.

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico. “But,

perhaps,” said she, “after all, the other Chevalier is not this:

perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt is still below.” Emily raised her

head. “No,” replied Ludovico, “Monsieur Valancourt never was below, if

this gentleman is not he.” “If you, sir,” said Ludovico, addressing the

stranger, “would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name,

this mistake had been avoided.” “Most true,” replied the stranger,

speaking in broken Italian, “but it was of the utmost consequence to

me, that my name should be concealed from Montoni. Madam,” added he

then, addressing Emily in French, “will you permit me to apologise for

the pain I have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone my name,

and the circumstance, which has led me into this error? I am of

France;—I am your countryman;—we are met in a foreign land.” Emily

tried to compose her spirits; yet she hesitated to grant his request.

At length, desiring, that Ludovico would wait on the staircase, and

detaining Annette, she told the stranger, that her woman understood

very little Italian, and begged he would communicate what he wished to

say, in that language.—Having withdrawn to a distant part of the

corridor, he said, with a long-drawn sigh, “You, madam, are no stranger

to me, though I am so unhappy as to be unknown to you.—My name is Du

Pont; I am of France, of Gascony, your native province, and have long

admired,—and, why should I affect to disguise it?—have long loved you.”

He paused, but, in the next moment, proceeded. “My family, madam, is

probably not unknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La

Vallée, and I have, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on

visits in the neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating how

much you interested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you

frequented; how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and

lamented the circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my

passion. I will not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became

possessed of a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which

I committed to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectations very

different from my present ones. I will say nothing of these

circumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me only

supplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarily

returned. Your generosity will pardon the theft, and restore the prize.

My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole has

contributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my torment.”

Emily now interrupted him. “I think, sir, I may leave it to your

integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared,

concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think you

will acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will allow

me to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice. I must consider

myself honoured by your good opinion, but”—and she hesitated,—“the

mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more.”

“It does, madam,—alas! it does!” said the stranger, who, after a long

pause, proceeded.—“But you will allow me to show my disinterestedness,

though not my love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet, alas!

what services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, like

you. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through half

the hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice.

Accept the offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward of

having, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks.”

“You deserve them already, sir,” said Emily; “the wish deserves my

warmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the danger

you incur by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolation

to me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeed

or not, that I have a countryman, who would so generously protect

me.”—Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted to

withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. “Allow me to breathe

another fervent sigh for your happiness,” said he, “and to applaud

myself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.” As he said this,

Emily heard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the

door from the staircase open, and a man rush into her chamber. “I will

teach you to conquer it,” cried he, as he advanced into the corridor,

and drew a stiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but

who, stepping back, avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi,

from whom he wrenched the stiletto. While they struggled in each

other’s grasp, Emily, followed by Annette, ran further into the

corridor, calling on Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the

staircase, and, as she advanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a

distant noise, that seemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the

danger she was incurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of

Ludovico, she returned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still

struggling for victory. It was her own cause which was to be decided

with that of the former, whose conduct, independently of this

circumstance, would, however, have interested her in his success, even

had she not disliked and dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in a chair,

and supplicated them to desist from further violence, till, at length,

Du Pont forced Verezzi to the floor, where he lay stunned by the

violence of his fall; and she then entreated Du Pont to escape from the

room, before Montoni, or his party, should appear; but he still refused

to leave her unprotected; and, while Emily, now more terrified for him,

than for herself, enforced the entreaty, they heard steps ascending the

private staircase.

“O you are lost!” cried she, “these are Montoni’s people.” Du Pont made

no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager,

countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next moment,

Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place. Throwing a hasty glance

round the chamber, “Follow me,” said he, “as you value your lives; we

have not an instant to lose!”

Emily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?

“I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,” replied Ludovico: “fly! fly!”

She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the

staircase, and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she recollected

Annette, and enquired for her. “She awaits us further on, Signora,”

said Ludovico, almost breathless with haste; “the gates were open, a

moment since, to a party just come in from the mountains: they will be

shut, I fear, before we can reach them! Through this door, Signora,”

added Ludovico, holding down the lamp, “take care, here are two steps.”

Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood,

that her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment;

while Du Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, to

cheer her spirits.

“Speak low, Signor,” said Ludovico, “these passages send echoes all

round the castle.”

“Take care of the light,” cried Emily, “you go so fast, that the air

will extinguish it.”

Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the

party then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which,

Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened into

the outer one. As they advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds, that

seemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily. “Nay, Signora,”

said Ludovico, “our only hope is in that tumult; while the Signor’s

people are busied about the men, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps,

pass unnoticed through the gates. But hush!” he added, as they

approached the small door, that opened into the outer court, “if you

will remain here a moment, I will go to see whether the gates are open,

and anybody is in the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you

hear me talking,” continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont,

“and remain quite still.”

Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door,

listening anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was

heard in the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many

voices yet issued from the inner one. “We shall soon be beyond the

walls,” said Du Pont softly to Emily, “support yourself a little

longer, Madam, and all will be well.”

But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of some

other person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. “Ah! it is

too late!” exclaimed Emily, “what is to become of us?” They listened

again, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking with a sentinel,

whose voices were heard also by Emily’s favourite dog, that had

followed her from the chamber, and now barked loudly. “This dog will

betray us!” said Du Pont, “I will hold him.” “I fear he has already

betrayed us!” replied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, and,

again listening to what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say,

“I’ll watch the gates the while.”

“Stay a minute,” replied the sentinel, “and you need not have the

trouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, then

the gates will be shut, and I can leave my post.” “I don’t mind the

trouble, comrade,” said Ludovico, “you will do such another good turn

for me, some time. Go—go, and fetch the wine; the rogues, that are just

come in, will drink it all else.”

The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the

second court, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the

gates might be shut; but they were too much engaged, to attend to him,

even if they had heard his voice.

“Aye—aye,” said Ludovico, “they know better than that; they are sharing

it all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you must wait

till the wine is drunk. I have had my share already, but, since you do

not care about yours, I see no reason why I should not have that too.”

“Hold, hold, not so fast,” cried the sentinel, “do watch then, for a

moment: I’ll be with you presently.”

“Don’t hurry yourself,” said Ludovico, coolly, “I have kept guard

before now. But you may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle

should be attacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like a

hero.”

(*Note: A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])

“There, my good fellow,” returned the soldier, “there, take it—it has

seen service, though it could do little in defending the castle. I’ll

tell you a good story, though, about this same trombone.”

“You’ll tell it better when you have had the wine,” said Ludovico.

“There! they are coming out from the court already.”

“I’ll have the wine, though,” said the sentinel, running off. “I won’t

keep you a minute.”

“Take your time, I am in no haste,” replied Ludovico, who was already

hurrying across the court, when the soldier came back. “Whither so

fast, friend—whither so fast?” said the latter. “What! is this the way

you keep watch! I must stand to my post myself, I see.”

“Aye, well,” replied Ludovico, “you have saved me the trouble of

following you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to

drink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out;

the other that Federico has, is not worth having. But you are not

likely to have any, I see, for they are all coming out.”

“By St. Peter! so they are,” said the soldier, and again ran off, while

Ludovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage,

where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse had

occasioned; but, on his telling them the court was clear, they followed

him to the gates, without waiting another instant, yet not before he

had seized two horses, that had strayed from the second court, and were

picking a scanty meal among the grass, which grew between the pavement

of the first.

They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the

road that led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette

on foot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other.

Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placed

on horseback with their two protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way,

they set off as fast as the broken road, and the feeble light, which a

rising moon threw among the foliage, would permit.

Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she

scarcely dared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted

whether this adventure would terminate in escape,—a doubt, which had

too much probability to justify it; for, before they quitted the woods,

they heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights

moving quickly near the castle above. Du Pont whipped his horse, and

with some difficulty compelled him to go faster.

“Ah! poor beast,” said Ludovico, “he is weary enough;—he has been out

all day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lights

coming this way.”

Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full

gallop; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distant as

scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. The

travellers then abated their pace, and, consulting whither they should

direct their course, it was determined they should descend into

Tuscany, and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where they could

readily embark for France. Thither Du Pont meant to attend Emily, if he

should learn, that the regiment he had accompanied into Italy, was

returned to his native country.

They were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo and

Bertrand; but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquainted

with the passes of these mountains, said, that, a little further on, a

by-road, branching from this, would lead them down into Tuscany with

very little difficulty; and that, at a few leagues distance, was a

small town, where necessaries could be procured for their journey.

“But, I hope,” added he, “we shall meet with no straggling parties of

banditti; some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a good

trombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter any of

those brave spirits. You have no arms, Signor?” “Yes,” replied Du Pont,

“I have the villain’s stilletto, who would have stabbed me—but let us

rejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor torment ourselves with looking

out for dangers, that may never arrive.”

The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides of

the narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them light

sufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and broken

stones, that frequently crossed it. They now travelled leisurely, and

in profound silence; for they had scarcely yet recovered from the

astonishment, into which this sudden escape had thrown them.—Emily’s

mind, especially, was sunk, after the various emotions it had suffered,

into a kind of musing stillness, which the reposing beauty of the

surrounding scene and the creeping murmur of the night-breeze among the

foliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valancourt and of

France, with hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, had not

the first events of this evening harassed her spirits too much, to

permit her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily was

alone the object of Du Pont’s melancholy consideration; yet, with the

despondency he suffered, as he mused on his recent disappointment, was

mingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though they did

not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this wonderful

escape, of the bustle in which Montoni and his people must be, now that

their flight was discovered; of her native country, whither she hoped

she was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no

longer appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider such.

Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having rescued his

Annette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had surrounded them; on

his own liberation from people, whose manners he had long detested; on

the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; on his prospect of

happiness with the object of his affections, and not a little on the

address, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted the

whole of this affair.

Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently,

for above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du

Pont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting

objects, seen imperfectly in the twilight. At length, lights were

perceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had no

doubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while his

companions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence.

Annette was the first who interrupted this. “Holy Peter!” said she,

“What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, nor

my lady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!”

This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an

embarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money,

when he was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the sentinel,

who had enabled him occasionally to leave his prison-chamber; and

Ludovico, who had for some time found a difficulty, in procuring any

part of the wages due to him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to

procure necessary refreshment at the first town, in which they should

arrive.

Their poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain them

among the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely

consider themselves safe from Montoni. The travellers, however, had

only to proceed and dare the future; and they continued their way

through lonely wilds and dusky valleys, where the overhanging foliage

now admitted, and then excluded the moonlight; wilds so desolate, that

they appeared, on the first glance, as if no human being had ever trod

them before. Even the road, in which the party were, did but slightly

contradict this error, for the high grass and other luxuriant

vegetation, with which it was overgrown, told how very seldom the foot

of a traveller had passed it.

At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of a

sheep-bell; and, soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party then

knew, that they were near some human habitation, for the light, which

Ludovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed by

intervening mountains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened their pace

along the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one of

those pastoral valleys of the Apennines, which might be painted for a

scene of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely contrasted

by the grandeur of the snowtopped mountains above.

The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, showed faintly, at a

little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from

“under the opening eye-lids of the morn,” the town they were in search

of, and which they soon after reached. It was not without some

difficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford shelter

for themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might not rest

longer than was necessary for refreshment. Her appearance excited some

surprise, for she was without a hat, having had time only to throw on

her veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that compelled her

to regret again the want of money, without which it was impossible to

procure this necessary article of dress.

Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to supply

present refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform the

landlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of their exact

situation, and requested, that he would assist them to pursue their

journey; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as far as he was

able, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping from Montoni,

whom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he consented to lend

them fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too poor

himself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting their

poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the

hovel, which served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic with

joy, in which his auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle

from one of the horses, he had found beneath it a small bag,

containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the _Condottieri_, who had

returned from a plundering excursion, just before Ludovico left the

castle, and whose horse having strayed from the inner court, while his

master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the treasure, which

the ruffian had considered the reward of his exploit.

On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than

sufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined to

accompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his regiment,

or not; for, though he had as much confidence in the integrity of

Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he could not endure

the thought of committing her to his care for the voyage; nor, perhaps,

had he resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous pleasure, which

he might derive from her presence.

He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should

direct their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of the

country, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, which

Du Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to assist their

plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were continually

departing. Thither, therefore, it was determined, that they should

proceed.

Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the

peasant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments

for the journey, and the travellers, having exchanged their tired

horses for others better able to carry them, recommenced their joyous

way, as the sun was rising over the mountains, and, after travelling

through this romantic country, for several hours, began to descend into

the vale of Arno. And here Emily beheld all the charms of sylvan and

pastoral landscape united, adorned with the elegant villas of the

Florentine nobles, and diversified with the various riches of

cultivation. How vivid the shrubs that embowered the slopes, with the

woods, that stretched amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above

all, how elegant the outline of these waving Apennines, now softening

from the wildness, which their interior regions exhibited! At a

distance, in the east, Emily discovered Florence, with its towers

rising on the brilliant horizon, and its luxuriant plain, spreading to

the feet of the Apennines, speckled with gardens and magnificent

villas, or coloured with groves of orange and lemon, with vines, corn,

and plantations of olives and mulberry; while, to the west, the vale

opened to the waters of the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were

known only by a bluish line, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the

light marine vapour, which just stained the æther above.

With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back

to her native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with

it a pang; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome

her, but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot,

where he, who _was_ her father, lay interred. Nor were her spirits

cheered, when she considered how long it would probably be before she

should see Valancourt, who might be stationed with his regiment in a

distant part of France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only

to lament the successful villany of Montoni; yet, still she would have

felt inexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the

same country with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she could

not see him.

The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look

out for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and the

neighbouring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, and

figs, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned from

the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely excluded the

sunbeams, and where a spring, gushing from the rock, gave coolness to

the air; and, having alighted and turned the horses to graze, Annette

and Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the surrounding thickets, of

which they soon returned with an abundance. The travellers, seated

under the shade of a pine and cypress grove and on turf, enriched with

such a profusion of fragrant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen,

even among the Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with new

delight, beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowing

landscape stretching to the sea.

Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette

was all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting the

respectful distance, which was due to his companions. The repast being

over, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during these

sultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, said he

would watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble;

and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to repose, while

he stood guard with his trombone.

When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleep

on his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As the

sun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, and as it

was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he had

suffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity of

enquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni’s prisoner, and he,

pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the excuse it

gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately answered her

curiosity.

“I came into Italy, madam,” said Du Pont, “in the service of my

country. In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with

the bands of Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was

taken prisoner. When they told me, whose captive I was, the name of

Montoni struck me, for I remembered, that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had

married an Italian of that name, and that you had accompanied them into

Italy. It was not, however, till some time after, that I became

convinced this was the same Montoni, or learned that you, madam, was

under the same roof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what

were my emotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom

I had so far won to my interest, that he granted me many indulgences,

one of which was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to

himself; but he persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice

of my situation to you, for he justly dreaded a discovery and the

consequent vengeance of Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more

than once. You are surprised, madam, and I will explain myself. My

health and spirits suffered extremely from want of air and exercise,

and, at length, I gained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the

man, that he gave me the means of walking on the terrace.”

Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of Du

Pont, who proceeded:

“In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to apprehend

from a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was vigilantly

guarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicular

rock; he showed me also,” continued Du Pont, “a door concealed in the

cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was confined, which he

instructed me how to open; and which, leading into a passage, formed

within the thickness of the wall, that extended far along the castle,

finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have

since been informed, that there are many passages of the same kind

concealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which were,

undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes in time

of war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to the

terrace, where I walked with the utmost caution, lest my steps should

betray me to the sentinels on duty in distant parts; for this end of

it, being guarded by high buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In

one of these midnight wanderings, I saw light in a casement that

overlooked the rampart, and which, I observed, was immediately over my

prison-chamber. It occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment,

and, with the hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the

window.”

Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the

terrace, and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, “It

was you then, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror;

my spirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long suffering, that

they took alarm at every hint.” Du Pont, after lamenting, that he had

occasioned her any apprehension, added, “As I rested on the wall,

opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholy

situation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds of

lamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there a

person, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my emotion

at that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, till the

distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit my

station.

“It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I

could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one man

to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances

related by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again I

ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, but

without daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared;

then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to lamentation;

again you appeared—you spoke—I heard the well-known accent of your

voice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have forsaken me again,

had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when I

instantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me. He

followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I was

compelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to save

myself. I had heard of the superstition of many of these men, and I

uttered a strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it

for something supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself

I succeeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror he

suffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A

sense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness,

which my appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me

ever after from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night,

I frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by a

soldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I

will acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was

only a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then thought I

heard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to

reply, lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I

right, madam, in this conjecture—was it you who spoke?”

“Yes,” said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, “you were right indeed.”

Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived,

now changed the subject. “In one of my excursions through the passage,

which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation,” said he.

“In the passage!” said Emily, with surprise.

“I heard it in the passage,” said Du Pont, “but it proceeded from an

apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and the

shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed,

that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. It

happened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room,

and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, his

predecessor, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention some very

surprising circumstances, and whether they were strictly true, his

conscience must decide; I fear it will determine against him. But you,

madam, have doubtless heard the report, which he designs should

circulate, on the subject of that lady’s mysterious fate.”

“I have, sir,” replied Emily, “and I perceive, that you doubt it.”

“I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,” rejoined Du

Pont;—“but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly

contributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost

convinced me, that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;—the more so

that I had heard the guests mention your name in a manner, that

threatened your repose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are

often the most superstitious, I determined to try whether I could not

awaken their consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime

I dreaded. I listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking

passages of his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words,

in a disguised and hollow tone.”

“But were you not afraid of being discovered?” said Emily.

“I was not,” replied Du Pont; “for I knew, that, if Montoni had been

acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confined

me in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from better

authority, that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time,

appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed,

that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni order his

servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distant

from this part of the passage.” “I remember perfectly to have heard of

the conversation you mention,” said Emily; “it spread a general alarm

among Montoni’s people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake of

it.”

Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and

then of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him,

that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where

she had been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to

write to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct.

There, she designed to wait, till La Vallée should again be her own,

whither she hoped her income would some time permit her to return; for

Du Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni had

attempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he again

congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt,

meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her

aunt’s estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily’s

heart, such as she had not known for many months; but she endeavoured

to conceal this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a

painful remembrance of his rival.

They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west,

when Du Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey.

Gradually descending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the

Arno, and wound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted

with the scenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its

classic waves revived. At a distance, they heard the gay song of the

peasants among the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the

waves with yellow lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the

mountains, which, at length, deepened into night. Then the _lucciola_,

the fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the

foliage, while the _cicala_, with its shrill note, became more

clamorous than even during the noon-day heat, loving best the hour when

the English beetle, with less offensive sound,

winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.

COLLINS

The travellers crossed the Arno by moonlight, at a ferry, and, learning

that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to

have proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, they

set out on their wearied horses for that city. As they approached it,

the vale expanded into a plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olives

and mulberry groves; but it was late, before they reached its gates,

where Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and the

tones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups, that

filled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice; but

here was no moonlight sea—no gay gondolas, dashing the waves,—no

_Palladian_ palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead it

into the wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no

music trembled from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy

voices of sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean;

the melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain’s

whistle;—sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost into

silence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he

might hear of a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus

be spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reached

the inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but,

after all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no

bark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned to

their resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where his

regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. The

travellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this day; and,

on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view the

celebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its hanging

tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charming

country, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longer

awful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of sylvan and

pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked down

delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, and

crowned with these beautiful hills.

She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find it

crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which

reminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the

time of the Carnival; but here was bustle without gaiety, and noise

instead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in the

waving outlines of the surrounding hills.

Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay,

where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail,

in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could be

procured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf of Lyons

towards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which city he

understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire. He,

therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them to

Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to France

was secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, and

the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country—that country which

held Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such

as she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At Leghorn

also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked for

France; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he could

now accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, or

apprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days, he

scrupulously forbore to distress her by a mention of his passion, and

she was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love him. He

endeavoured to amuse her by showing the environs of the town, and they

often walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, where

Emily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of

vessels, participating in the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes,

shedding a sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were

separating. It was after having witnessed a scene of the latter kind,

that she arranged the following stanzas:

THE MARINER

Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow’d the tide;

And blue the heaven in its mirror smil’d;

The white sail trembled, swell’d, expanded wide,

The busy sailors at the anchor toil’d.

With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,

The deck was throng’d—how swift the moments fly!

The vessel heaves, the farewell signs appear;

Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

The last dread moment comes!—The sailor youth

Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,

Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,

“Farewell, my love—we shall—shall meet again!”

Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;

The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,

As gradual glides the bark along the flood;

His bride is seen no more—“Adieu!—adieu!”

The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o’er,

Dim steals her twilight down the crimson’d west,

He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more

The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.

He views its dark line on the distant sky,

And Fancy leads him to his little home,

He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,

He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.

Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,

In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;

He turns his aching eyes,—his spirit fails,

The chill tear falls;—sad to the deck he goes!

The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl’d,

Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,

Fast o’er the waves the wretched bark is hurl’d,

“O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!”

Lightnings, that show the vast and foamy deep,

The rending thunders, as they onward roll,

The loud, loud winds, that o’er the billows sweep—

Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!

Ah! what avails the seamen’s toiling care!

The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv’n;

The sounds of terror groan along the air,

Then sink afar;—the bark on rocks is driv’n!

Fierce o’er the wreck the whelming waters pass’d,

The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!

Henry’s faint accents trembled in the blast—

“Farewell, my love!—we ne’er shall meet again!”

Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,

When summer-breezes linger on the wave,

A melancholy voice is heard to pour

Its lonely sweetness o’er poor Henry’s grave!

And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard

Around the grove, where Ellen’s form is laid;

Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear’d,

For lovers’ spirits guard the holy shade!