CHAPTER VII

Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;

Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,

Which busy care draws in the brains of men;

Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.

SHAKESPEARE

The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and,

anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the

outer door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obliged

to knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, nor his voice was

heard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bedroom, and

that Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep

sleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leaving

the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a grey autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave

only a feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that

ascended from the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which

were now varied with many a mellow tint of autumn. The storm was

passed, but the waves were yet violently agitated, and their course was

traced by long lines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails

of the vessels, near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart.

The still gloom of the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued

his way through the woods, sunk in deep thought.

Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the

brow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind was

now not occupied with the occurrences of the château, and Valancourt

was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught

herself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantly

reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her

esteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his

parting look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last

farewell; and, some accidental associations now recalling these

circumstances to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears

to the recollection.

Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps,

and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour, as

they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray

round the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists,

that came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene,

which was in harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up

to the remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, and she

abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the

watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, which

she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely

cut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length,

recognising the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling

anxiety the following lines, entitled

SHIPWRECK

’Til solemn midnight! On this lonely steep,

Beneath this watch-tow’r’s desolated wall,

Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,

I rest; and view below the desert deep,

As through tempestuous clouds the moon’s cold light

Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night

With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,

And sullen roar the surges, far below.

In the still pauses of the gust I hear

The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,

And oft among the clouds their forms appear.

But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,

And in the distant ray what glimmering sail

Bends to the storm?—Now sinks the note of fear!

Ah! wretched mariners!—no more shall day

Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!

From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower;

that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such

a one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately,

since it had not long been light, and without light it was impossible

these letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he

might be yet in the gardens.

As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called

up a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits;

but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the

tower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the château. As she

passed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near the

tower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment of

agitation, she was inclined to believe, that she had then heard and

seen Valancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her

error. On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a

person, walking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her

mind engaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this

to be Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, before

she could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she

then knew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on

finding her walking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to

rally her on her love of solitude. But he soon perceived this to be

more a subject of concern than of light laughter, and, changing his

manner, affectionately expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging

unavailing regret; who, though she acknowledged the justness of all he

said, could not restrain her tears, while she did so, and he presently

quitted the topic. Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from his

friend, the Advocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to

him, respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with

friendly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of establishing

her claim to them; while she felt, that the estates could now

contribute little to the happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had

no longer an interest.

When they returned to the château, Emily retired to her apartment, and

Count De Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was still

fastened, but, being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his

calls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, and

the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length

began to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of

an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore,

left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it

open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the

château.

To the Count’s enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they

replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north

side of the château, since the preceding night.

“He sleeps soundly then,” said the Count, “and is at such a distance

from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the

chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and

follow me.”

The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all

the household were assembled, that the Count’s orders were obeyed. In

the mean time, Dorothée was telling of a door, that opened from a

gallery, leading from the great staircase into the last ante-room of

the saloon, and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared

probable, that Ludovico might be easily awakened by an attempt to open

it. Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as

ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now,

seriously interested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon

the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and

withheld the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so

dark and close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to

be only of larch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its

forests of larch. The beauty of its polished hue and of its delicate

carvings determined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to

that leading from the back staircase, which being, at length, forced,

he entered the first ante-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most

courageous of his servants, the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry

on the stairs and landing-place.

All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and,

having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which,

still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bedroom, and

entered.

The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico,

for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his

uncertainty was not soon terminated, since the shutters being all

closed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished in

it.

The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to do

so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry

occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured

thus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left

to finish the adventure.

Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, they

perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in

which Ludovico had been sitting;—for he sat there no longer, nor could

anywhere be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the

apartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters,

that he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet

appearing, he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment and

scarcely trusting his senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he

advanced to examine whether he was there asleep. No person, however,

was in it, and he proceeded to the oriel, where everything remained as

on the preceding night, but Ludovico was nowhere to be found.

The Count now checked his amazement, considering that Ludovico might

have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors,

which their lonely desolation and the recollected reports, concerning

them, had inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would

naturally have sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared

they had not seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found

fastened, with the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for

him to have passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite

were found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys also

within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad

had escaped through the casements, next examined them, but such as

opened wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be

carefully secured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige

appeared of any person having attempted to pass them; neither was it

probable, that Ludovico would have incurred the risk of breaking his

neck, by leaping from a window, when he might have walked safely

through a door.

The Count’s amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more

to examine the bedroom, where was no appearance of disorder, except

that occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had

stood a small table, and on this Ludovico’s sword, his lamp, the book

he had been reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still

remained. At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some

fragments of provision and wood.

Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve,

and, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his

manner, that expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must have

quitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could not

believe, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, if

there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he should

retreat through it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the

smallest vestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced.

In the rooms everything remained as much in order as if he had just

walked out by the common way.

The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the

bed-chamber, saloon and one of the ante-rooms were hung, that he might

discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after a

laborious search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the

apartments, having secured the door of the last ante-chamber, the key

of which he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that

strict search should be made for Ludovico not only in the château, but

in the neighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they

remained there in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever

was the subject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity,

and his manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the

topic, which now agitated the Count’s family with wonder and alarm, was

introduced.

On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened in

all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions,

though it was difficult to discover what connection there could

possibly be between the two subjects, or to account for this effect

otherwise than by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by

exciting awe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility,

which rendered it more liable to the influence of superstition in

general. It is, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and

his adherents became more bigoted to their own systems than before,

while the terrors of the Count’s servants increased to an excess, that

occasioned many of them to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest

remained only till others could be procured to supply their places.

The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and,

after several days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave herself

up to despair, and the other inhabitants of the château to amazement.

Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of

the late Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she

fancied had existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly

impressed by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the

loss of Ludovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both

her esteem and gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the

quiet retirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received

with real sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by

the Count, for whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration

of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothée’s consent, she, at length,

mentioned the appearance, which they had witnessed in the chamber of

the deceased Marchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled at

such a relation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in

the distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with

seriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that

this occurrence should rest in silence. “Whatever may be the cause and

the import of these extraordinary occurrences,” added the Count, “time

only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in

the château, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the

fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I will

myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing,

till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.”

The Count then sent for Dorothée, and required of her also a promise of

silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of

an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him

the particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi’s death, with some of

which he appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was

evidently surprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative,

the Count retired to his closet, where he remained alone for several

hours; and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner

surprised and alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts.

On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count’s

guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and

Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by

the arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine

upon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared

in his countenance, when he met her, told that he brought back the same

ardour of passion, which had formerly banished him from

Château-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with

pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that

seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for

his friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner,

and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the

languor of despondency.

On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring

the purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which

was received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the

pain she might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteem

and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and

excited her tenderest compassion; and, being more sensible than ever of

the impropriety of remaining longer at the château, she immediately

sought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to

the convent.

“My dear Emily,” said he, “I observe with extreme concern, the illusion

you are encouraging—an illusion common to young and sensible minds.

Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never

entirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit

of indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and

discolour your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me

dissipate this illusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger.”

Emily smiled mournfully, “I know what you would say, my dear sir,” said

she, “and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never

know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its

tranquillity—if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.”

“I know, that you feel all this,” replied the Count; “and I know, also,

that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in

solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time

will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this

subject, and to sympathise in your sufferings,” added the Count, with

an air of solemnity, “for I have known what it is to love, and to

lament the object of my love. Yes,” continued he, while his eyes filled

with tears, “I have suffered!—but those times have passed away—long

passed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion.”

“My dear sir,” said Emily, timidly, “what mean those tears?—they speak,

I fear, another language—they plead for me.”

“They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,” replied the Count,

drying them, “I would have you superior to such weakness. These,

however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been

opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of

madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an

indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must

certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might be

happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long been

tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are

unexceptionable;—after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that

I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would

promote it. Do not weep, Emily,” continued the Count, taking her hand,

“there _is_ happiness reserved for you.”

He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, “I do not

wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;

all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that

would lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your

mind to be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to

believe it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes

think with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the

state of despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to

withdraw you.”

“Ah! my dear sir,” said Emily, while her tears still fell, “do not

suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with an

expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own

heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every

other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.”

“Leave me to understand your heart,” replied the Count, with a faint

smile. “If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in other

instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future

conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain

longer at the château than your own satisfaction will permit; but

though I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the

claims of friendship for your future visits.”

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily

thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received

from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but

one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some

future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself—If

Mons. Du Pont was not at the château.

The Count smiled at this condition. “Be it so,” said he, “meanwhile the

convent is so near the château, that my daughter and I shall often

visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another

visitor—will you forgive us?”

Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.

“Well,” rejoined the Count, “I will pursue this subject no further, and

must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. You

will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged

only by a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable

friend Mons. Du Pont.”

Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure

to the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret;

after which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she

should return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening

of the following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart,

while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would

sometimes regard him with a more favourable eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement of

the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal

kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. A

report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the château had already

reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it was

the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was

requested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event.

Emily was guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly

related a few circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance,

her auditors almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by

supernatural means.

“A belief had so long prevailed,” said a nun, who was called sister

Frances, “that the château was haunted, that I was surprised, when I

heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor, I

fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that the

virtues of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment due

to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.”

“Of what crime, then, was he suspected?” said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a

boarder at the convent.

“Let us pray for his soul!” said a nun, who had till now sat in silent

attention. “If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was

sufficient.”

There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of

delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle

repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the

nun.

“I dare not presume to say what was his crime,” replied sister Frances;

“but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting

the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the

death of his lady, he quitted Château-le-Blanc, and never afterwards

returned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it

from report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died,

that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.”

“But I can,” said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called

sister Agnes.

“You then,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, “are possibly acquainted with

circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or

not, and what was the crime imputed to him.”

“I am,” replied the nun; “but who shall dare to scrutinize my

thoughts—who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge,

and to that judge he is gone!”

Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a

significant glance.

“I only requested your opinion,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; “if

the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.”

“Displeasing!”—said the nun, with emphasis.—“We are idle talkers; we do

not weigh the meaning of the words we use; _displeasing_ is a poor

word. I will go pray.” As she said this she rose from her seat, and

with a profound sigh quitted the room.

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

“It is nothing extraordinary,” replied sister Frances, “she is often

thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at

times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?”

“Never,” said Emily. “I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there

was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived

it in her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!”

“Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,” observed the

lady abbess, “she has need of them.”

“Dear lady,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, “what is

your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have

occurred at the château, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I

shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what

the punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?”

“We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,” said the abbess, with

an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, “we must be cautious of

advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me

to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was

the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our

daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alluded

to the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware,

my children, of incurring so terrible a punishment—it is the purgatory

of this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to

such as live in the world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushed

to copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; her

heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!”

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and she

rose. “Let us go, my children,” said she, “and intercede for the

wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our

souls for the heaven, to which _she_ is gone!”

Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and,

remembering her father, “The heaven, to which _he_, too, is gone!” said

she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and

the nuns to the chapel.