CHAPTER III

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 depredations having exceeded their usual limits, and

reached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercial

senate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance would

permit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, should

complete the suppression of his power and the correction of his

outrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of

receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly

by 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

Udolpho 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 Udolpho

without his knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the

republic to have a large part of its regular force employed, for such a

time as the siege of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a

handful of banditti. 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 the march of smaller bodies of troops, to

take advantage either of the treachery, or negligence of some of his

party, and to rush unexpectedly upon the whole even in the castle of

Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it,

received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His first

efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the

neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance

of several of the _condottieri_, of whom he found none, that he

addressed, unwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure

their own pardon from the senate. He learned also the number of

Montoni’s troops, and that it had been much increased, since his late

successes. The conclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having

returned with his party, who received the watch-word and other

assistance from their friends 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 Udolpho, and whose concealment had been made known to the

senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful attempt of the latter 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

suspicions, 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 Languedoc, was ignorant of the defeat and signal

humiliation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason

had yet been able to control. Count De Villefort, who sincerely

attempted whatever benevolence could suggest for softening them,

sometimes allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her

into friendly parties, and constantly protected her, as much as

possible, from the shrewd enquiries 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 taste, without appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured

gradually to withdraw her from the subject of her grief, and to awake

other interests in her mind. Emily, to whom he appeared as the

enlightened friend and protector of her youth, soon felt for him the

tender affection of a daughter, and her heart expanded to her young

friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose kindness and simplicity

compensated for the want of more brilliant qualities. It was long

before she could sufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt to

listen to the story, promised by old Dorothée, concerning which her

curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but Dorothée, 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 Dorothée’s tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised

her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. “I am come, at

last, lady,” said she; “I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake

so, tonight. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I was

a-coming.” Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would

compose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had

brought her thither. “Alas,” said Dorothée, “it is thinking of that, I

believe, which has disturbed 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 death-bed.”

Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothée, who went on. “It is about

twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the château. O!

I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall,

where we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my

lord the Marquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!—But, as I was

saying, ma’amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet

looks, did not look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he

said it was all fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for

all that. My lady Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I have

often thought, very like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open

house, for a long time, and gave such entertainments and there were

such gay doings as have never been in the château since. I was younger,

ma’amselle, then, than I am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I

remember I danced with Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow

ribbons, and a coif, not such as they wear now, but plaited high, with

ribbons all about it. It was very becoming truly;—my lord, the Marquis,

noticed me. Ah! he was a good-natured gentleman then—who would have

thought that he—”

“But the Marchioness, Dorothée,” said Emily, “you were telling me of

her.”

“O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart,

and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber;

but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did

not dare then to ask what was the 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

nobleman, or else a 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 ached to see it. But he used to be

stubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all

in vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her

in the ante-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 at the château, 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 Marquis

was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head,

that this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never

could learn for certain.”

“What was the chevalier’s name, Dorothée?” said Emily.

“Why that I will not tell even to you, ma’amselle, for evil may come of

it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness

was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been

privately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was

afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man;

but this seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I

was saying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the

chevalier I spoke of had been at the château, 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 her

constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never

complained.

“After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken

ill, and I thought her long fretting had made her so,—but, alas! I fear

it was worse than that.”

“Worse! Dorothée,” said Emily, “can that be possible?”

“I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will

only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis—”

“Hush, Dorothée, what sounds were those?” said Emily.

Dorothée changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they

heard, on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

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

“I have often heard it, and at this same hour,” said Dorothée,

solemnly, “and, if spirits ever bring music—that is surely the music of

one!”

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had

formerly heard at the time of her father’s death, and, whether it was

the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that she

was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much

affected, that she had nearly fainted.

“I think I once told you, madam,” said Dorothée, “that I first heard

this music, soon after my lady’s death! I well remember the night!”—

“Hark! it comes again!” said Emily, “let us open the window, and

listen.”

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into

distance, and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the

woods, whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while

every other feature of the scene was involved in the night-shade,

which, however, allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in

the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe upon

the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,

enlightened only by the stars, Dorothée, in a low voice, resumed her

narrative.

“I was saying, ma’amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that

music. It was one night, soon after my lady’s death, that I had sat up

later than usual, and I don’t know how it was, but I had been thinking

a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately

witnessed. The château was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a

good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the

mournful things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low

spirited, for I felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened

often, wishing to hear a sound in the château, for you know,

ma’amselle, when one can hear people moving, one does not so much mind,

about one’s fears. But all the servants were gone to bed, and I sat,

thinking and thinking, till I was almost afraid to look round the room,

and my poor lady’s countenance often came to my mind, such as I had

seen her when she was dying, and, once or twice, I almost thought I saw

her before me,—when suddenly I heard such sweet music! It seemed just

at my window, and I shall never forget what I felt. I had not power to

move from my chair, but then, when I thought it was my dear lady’s

voice, the tears came to my eyes. I had often heard her sing, in her

life-time, and to be sure she had a very fine voice; it had made me cry

to hear her, many a time, when she has sat in her oriel, of an evening,

playing upon her lute such sad songs, and singing so. O! it went to

one’s heart! I have listened in the ante-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 hour it was. But, as

I said, madam,” continued Dorothée, “when first I heard the music, that

came just now, I thought it was my late lady’s, and I have often

thought so again, when I have heard it, as I have done at intervals,

ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone by, but still it has

returned.”

“It is extraordinary,” observed Emily, “that no person has yet

discovered the musician.”

“Aye, ma’amselle, 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 had, what good could it do?—for spirits, _you know_, ma’am, can

take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and,

the next perhaps, in a quite different place!”

“Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,” said Emily, “and acquaint

me with the manner of her death.”

“I will, ma’am,” said Dorothée, “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 piteously 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 supposed 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 light of her disorder—till she was seized with such

terrible pains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent

off a man and horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all

over the château in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady,

and did what I could to ease her sufferings. 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. O! I shall never forget

what a scene passed—I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was

almost distracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took

such pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to

enter his head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be

sure he did seem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of

her, and this affected her so much, that she fainted away.

“We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and

threw himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no

reason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquired

for him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, and

desired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma’amselle,

and she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of her

disorder was passed.”

Dorothée paused and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much

affected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek

patience with which she had suffered.

“When the doctor came,” resumed Dorothée, “alas! he came too late; he

appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a

frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the

attendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the

Marchioness, 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 stir about them. When my lord heard that my

lady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but the doctor,

who used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and,

after that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. When

she was buried in the church of the convent, at a little distance

yonder, if the moon was up you might see the towers here, ma’amselle,

all my lord’s vassals 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 Marquis, I never saw anybody so melancholy as he was afterwards,

and sometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost

thought he had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the château,

but joined his regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my

husband and I, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I

never saw him after, for he would not return to the château, though it

is such a fine place, and never finished those fine rooms he was

building on the west side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up

ever since, till my lord the Count came here.”

“The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,” said Emily, who

was anxious to know more than she dared to ask.

“Yes, madam,” replied Dorothée, “it was extraordinary; I have told you

all I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say more,

because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord the

Count.”

“You are very right,” said Emily;—“where did the Marquis die?”—“In the

north of France, I believe, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée. “I was very

glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a

sad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises,

sometimes, after my lady’s death, that, as I told you before, my

husband and I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have

told you all this sad history, and all my thoughts, and you have

promised, you know, never to give the least hint about it.”—“I have,”

said Emily, “and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothée;—what you

have told has interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I

could prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you

thought so deserving of the Marchioness.”

Dorothée, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to

the notice of Emily’s likeness to the late Marchioness. “There is

another picture of her,” added she, “hanging in a room of the suite,

which was shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was

married, and is much more like you than the miniature.” When Emily

expressed a strong desire to see this, Dorothée replied, that she did

not like to open those rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count

had talked the other day of ordering them to be opened; of which

Dorothée seemed to consider much, and then she owned, that she should

feel less, if she went into them with Emily first, than otherwise, and

at length promised to show the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the

narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish

to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothée would

return on the following night, when they were not likely to be

observed, and conduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the

portrait, she felt a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which

the Marchioness had died, and which Dorothée had said remained, with

the 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 this depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her

melancholy inclination, and imprudently 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.

Dorothée 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 and listening, in 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, but by very uncommon

sounds, that seemed to come either from the room adjoining her own, or

from one below. The terrible catastrophe that had been related to her,

together with the mysterious circumstances said to have since occurred

in the château, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk for

a moment under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did

not return, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story

she had heard.