CHAPTER XII

Oft woo’d the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,

In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,

With Freedom by my side, and soft-ey’d Melancholy.

GRAY

The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing

she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested the

Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the château. “And you

know, my dear sir,” added Blanche, “how delighted I shall be with such

a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read

with, since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma’s friend only.”

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter

yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their

danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily

expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with

attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased with her,

as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short an

acquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also given

him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious as to

those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he

determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent

of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded

with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the château. On

this subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady

Blanche’s welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or

to befriend the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably

interested.

On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but

Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the

room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a

very old friend, to prolong his stay at the château; an invitation,

which Du Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near

Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that she

would ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to

attempt, at present, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend

over the grounds belonging to the château, as much delighted with the

surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had

wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of the

monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to

go.

“Ah!” said Blanche with surprise, “I am but just released from a

convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure I

feel in wandering here, at liberty,—and in seeing the sky and the

fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.” Emily,

smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed,

that she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life.

“No, you may not intend it now,” said Blanche; “but you do not know to

what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they will

appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.”

When they returned to the château, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to her

favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancient

chambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by

observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of their

old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with those

of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque.

She was also interested by Dorothée the housekeeper, who attended them,

whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, and

who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazed

with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her.

While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with

surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;—the fields

and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La

Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in

her way from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be

the château, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he had

dropped some remarkable hints.

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for some

time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father had

betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other

circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The

music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La

Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous of

knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothée whether it returned at

midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered.

“Yes, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, “that music is still heard, but

the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; though

there are some people, who can guess.”

“Indeed!” said Emily, “then why do they not pursue the enquiry?”

“Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made—but who can pursue a

spirit?”

Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to

be led away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion;

yet, in spite of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity,

on this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now

enquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard.

“Ever since the death of my lady, madam,” replied Dorothée.

“Why, the place is not haunted, surely?” said Blanche, between jesting

and seriousness.

“I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,”

continued Dorothée, “and never before then. But that is nothing to some

things I could tell of.”

“Do, pray, tell them, then,” said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest

than in jest. “I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette,

and sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances,

which they themselves had witnessed!”

“You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the château,

and go and live in a cottage,” said Dorothée. “Never!” replied Blanche

with impatience.

“Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis”—Dorothée checked herself,

hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity

of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to

escape her, and she pressed the old housekeeper to proceed with her

account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was

evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had

already betrayed herself.

“I perceive,” said Emily, smiling, “that all old mansions are haunted;

I am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left

it, I have heard almost all of them explained.”

Blanche was silent; Dorothée looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt

herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she chose

to acknowledge. Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had

witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence,

the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in the MS.

papers, which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command of her

father; and she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost

as much as at the horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothée to explain

the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that

terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding

day, to see the suite of rooms beyond. “Dear young lady,” said the

housekeeper, “I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have

never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me

to see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again.”

“Certainly I will not,” replied Blanche, “if that is really your

objection.”

“Alas! it is,” said the old woman: “we all loved her well, and I shall

always grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since she

died; but I remember everything, that happened then, as if it was but

yesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite

from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.”

She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to

Emily, “this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my

mind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like

her, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came

to the château!”

“And was she not gay, afterwards?” said Blanche.

Dorothée shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly

expressive of the interest she now felt. “Let us sit down in this

window,” said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the

gallery: “and pray, Dorothée, if it is not painful to you, tell us

something more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into the

glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, which

you say often pass over it.”

“No, my lady,” replied Dorothée; “if you knew as much as I do, you

would not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often

wish I could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my

dear lady on her death-bed,—her very look,—and remember all she said—it

was a terrible scene!”

“Why was it so terrible?” said Emily with emotion.

“Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?” replied Dorothée.

To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothée was silent; and Emily,

observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and

endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some

object in the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and Monsieur

Du Pont, appearing, they went down to join them.

When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her to

the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully

to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to

him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received

her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes

allowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversation

the Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be,

or whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whom

he had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his

manner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion,

which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of

the good; for to the Count’s worth she had been inclined to yield her

confidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him.

Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had

received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the

convent, she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at

the château, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an

appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished to

see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her

father’s grave, she consented to remain a few days at the château.

To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival

in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a

boarder; she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt,

whom she merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not

where the latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his

brother’s seat in Gascony.

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to the

cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in

approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St.

Aubert, though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing

sadness in indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La

Voisin was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the

tranquil evening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his

cottage, watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the grass

before him, and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation,

encouraging their sports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was

much pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not

lost one of his family, since her departure.

“Yes, ma’amselle,” said the old man, “we all live merrily together

still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be

found in Languedoc, than ours.”

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and,

after half an hour’s conversation with La Voisin and his family, she

left the cottage.

During these the first days of her stay at Château-le-Blanc, she was

often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at

times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which

disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as

soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort would

permit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the

Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopeless

affection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though he

secretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing so

should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he

but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Château-le-Blanc, on the

following day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he

could return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could

not encourage his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues he

possessed, and for the services she had received from him; and it was

not without tender emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him

depart for his family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with

a countenance so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count

more warmly in his cause than before.

In a few days, Emily also left the château, but not before the Count

and Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon;

and she was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she

had formerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of

regard. The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many

melancholy recollections, but with these were mingled others, that

inspired gratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had

pursued her, since she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet

possessed; and, though she once more wept over her father’s grave, with

tears of tender affection, her grief was softened from its former

acuteness.

Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter from

her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived

in France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs as he

had undertaken to conduct during her absence, especially as to the

period for which La Vallée had been let, whither it was her wish to

return, if it should appear, that her income would permit her to do so.

The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal, as she expected,

expressing neither concern for the evils she suffered, nor pleasure,

that she was now removed from them; nor did he allow the opportunity to

pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom he

affected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of

vehemently declaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now,

felt himself to be inferior. On Emily’s pecuniary concerns, he was not

very explicit; he informed her, however, that the term, for which La

Vallée had been engaged, was nearly expired; but, without inviting her

to his own house, added, that her circumstances would by no means allow

her to reside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the

present, in the convent of St. Claire.

To her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father’s

servant, he gave no answer. In the postscript to his letter, Monsieur

Quesnel mentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had

placed the chief of his personal property, as being likely to arrange

his affairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors, and that Emily

would recover much more of her fortune, than she had formerly reason to

expect. The letter also inclosed to Emily an order upon a merchant at

Narbonne, for a small sum of money.

The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered to

enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful

province, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone, except

that anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, as the

time approached, when it was possible that she might receive an answer

to her letter.