prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VI

  Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!
 Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways,
 And all the widely-silent places round,
 Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays
 What never yet was sung in mortal lays.
     THOMSON

The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and prepared
for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering what she
had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the other
servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the
time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour, for
which the whole household waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his
closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leaving
which, his Lord delivered to him a sword.

'It has seen service in mortal quarrels,' said the Count, jocosely, 'you
will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let me
hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau.'

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. 'You shall be obeyed, my
Lord,' said he; 'I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace
of the chateau after this night.'

They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count's guests awaited
to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and
Dorothee, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who
then led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the chateau.
Having reached the back stair-case, several of the servants shrunk back,
and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the
stair-case, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him,
while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with
as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothee, who
had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the door
opened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she
uttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the
greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri
and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushed
into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just time
to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, and
Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the courageous
adventurer.

Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to
justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being
quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count
had now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had been
surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the
night.

'There are several chambers beyond these, your excellenza,' said
Ludovico, pointing to a door, 'and in one of them is a bed, they say.
I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie
down.'

'Good;' said the Count; 'let us go on. You see these rooms shew nothing,
but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engaged
since I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them till now.
Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to-morrow, to throw open
these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have
them taken down, and this antique furniture removed.'

'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding,
that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then any
thing else.'

'Yes,' said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, 'there is a
history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.--Let us
pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is
many years since I was in them. But where is the bed-room you speak of,
Ludovico?--these are only anti-chambers to the great drawing-room. I
remember them in their splendour!'

'The bed, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'they told me, was in a room that
opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.'

'O, here is the saloon,' said the Count, as they entered the spacious
apartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He here stood for
a moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which it
exhibited--the sumptuous tapestry--the long and low sophas of velvet,
with frames heavily carved and gilded--the floor inlaid with small
squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of
very rich tapestry-work--the casements of painted glass, and the large
Venetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period France
could not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment.
These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this
had been the state-room of the chateau, and here the Marchioness had
held the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials.
If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many
of them vanished even from the earth! that once had passed over these
polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have
exhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and
a splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one
glimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served to
shew the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and the
spacious and dusky walls around them.

'Ah!' said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, 'how the
scene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and the
Marchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here,
too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped in
many a sprightly maze--the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound
only one feeble voice--and even that will, ere long, be heard no more!
My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you
must pass away like those, who have preceded you--like those, who, as
they sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are
made up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearer
to their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almost
said criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since,
otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to a
future one. But enough of this; let us go on.'

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as he
entered, was struck with the funereal appearance, which the dark arras
gave to it. He approached the bed, with an emotion of solemnity, and,
perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; 'What
can this mean?' said he, as he gazed upon it.

'I have heard, my Lord,' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, looking
within the canopied curtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de Villeroi
died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to be
buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.'

The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in thought,
and evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he asked him
with a serious air, whether he thought his courage would support him
through the night? 'If you doubt this,' added the Count, 'do not be
ashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement, without
exposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.'

Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling
in his breast; pride, however, was victorious;--he blushed, and his
hesitation ceased.

'No, my Lord,' said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun; and
I am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a fire,
and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well.'

'Be it so,' said the Count; 'but how will you beguile the tediousness of
the night, if you do not sleep?'

'When I am weary, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not fear to
sleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book, that will entertain me.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you
should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have
too much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe you will
be alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or
its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. To-morrow, I
shall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall then
be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error. Good
night, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember what
I lately said to you.'

'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza; let me attend you with
the light.'

He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door;
on the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servants
had left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night,
who, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them,
and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined the
rooms, through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had done
before, for he apprehended, that some person might have concealed
himself in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, however,
but himself, was in these chambers, and, leaving open the doors,
through which he passed, he came again to the great drawing-room, whose
spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood,
looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as he
turned, perceiving a light and his own figure, reflected in one of the
large mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its
dark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily
into the bed-room, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the
oriel, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eye
was arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he
gazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some surprise;
and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bed-room,
where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his
spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the place,
for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now drew a
small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and some
cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he had
finished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feeling
disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.--It
was a volume of old Provencal tales. Having stirred the fire upon the
hearth, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied by
the scenes, which the page disclosed.

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those of
the party, who had attended him to the north apartment, had retreated,
upon hearing Dorothee's scream, and who were now earnest in their
enquiries concerning those chambers. The Count rallied his guests on
their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which
had occasioned it, and this led to the question, Whether the spirit,
after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth;
and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible to
the sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and
the last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by
respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted.
The Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation
ensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on both
sides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, but
without converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. The
effect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though the
Count had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, he
had considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the
human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder and
astonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of the
Baron; and, though many of the Count's propositions were unanswerable,
his opponents were inclined to believe this the consequence of their
own want of knowledge, on so abstracted a subject, rather than that
arguments did not exist, which were forcible enough to conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father's
glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured
to forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent.
Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to the
discussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and,
remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the
late Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times she
was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of giving
pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and,
awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, she
determined that her future silence should depend upon it.

When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to
his dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately
witnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he
was aroused from his reverie and his silence. 'What music is that I
hear?'--said he suddenly to his valet, 'Who plays at this late hour?'

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then
added, 'That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with a
delicate hand; who is it, Pierre?'

'My lord!' said the man, hesitatingly.

'Who plays that instrument?' repeated the Count.

'Does not your lordship know, then?' said the valet.

'What mean you?' said the Count, somewhat sternly.

'Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,' rejoined the man
submissively--'Only--that music--goes about the house at midnight often,
and I thought your lordship might have heard it before.'

'Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!--does nobody dance
to the music, too?'

'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from the
woods, they say, though they seem so near;--but then a spirit can do any
thing!'

'Ah, poor fellow!' said the Count, 'I perceive you are as silly as the
rest of them; to-morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous error.
But hark!--what voice is that?'

'O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.'

'Often!' said the Count, 'How often, pray? It is a very fine one.'

'Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times,
but there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it often
enough.'

'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, 'And
now, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than mortal!'

'That is what they say, my Lord,' said the valet; 'they say it is
nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts'--

'Peace!' said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away.

'This is strange!' said he, as he turned from the window, 'Close the
casements, Pierre.'

Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not so
soon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his fancy
in tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity engaged his
thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the
faint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and then
the hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. 'It is midnight,'
said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fire
on the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having been
engaged by the book before him, he had forgotten every thing besides;
but he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though the night
was stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, having again trimmed
his lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer to the
crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled mournfully
at the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the melancholy,
that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lent
to him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure corner
of the Marquis's library, and who, having opened it and perceived
some of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her own
entertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining it
from its proper station. The damp corner into which it had fallen, had
caused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be so
discoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the letters
could be traced. The fictions of the Provencal writers, whether drawn
from the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, or
recounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom the
Troubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and always
marvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that
Dorothee and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which had
captivated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in a
former age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico,
were of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificent
machinery and heroic manners, which usually characterized the fables of
the twelfth century, and of this description was the one he now happened
to open, which, in its original style, was of great length, but which
may be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive, that it is
strongly tinctured with the superstition of the times.

THE PROVENCAL TALE

'There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for
his magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with
ladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; for
the honour he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant
countries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than those
of many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service, who used
to sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the Arabians, or
adventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the crusades, or the
martial deeds of the Baron, their lord;--while he, surrounded by his
knights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where the
costly tapestry, that adorned the walls with pictured exploits of
his ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with armorial
bearings, the gorgeous banners, that waved along the roof, the sumptuous
canopies, the profusion of gold and silver, that glittered on the
sideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number and
gay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire
of the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may
not hope to see in these DEGENERATE DAYS.

'Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night, having
retired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his
attendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble
air, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that this
person had been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible
he could have lately passed the anti-room, unobserved by the pages in
waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, the
Baron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had not
yet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowly
advancing, told him, that there was nothing to fear; that he came with
no hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible secret, which it
was necessary for him to know.

'The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, after
surveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into the
scabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtained
access to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit.

'Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that he
could not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would follow him
to the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls,
he would there convince him, that he had something of importance to
disclose.

'This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, that
the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour of
the night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refused
to go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purpose
was an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal the
occasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were.

'While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively than
before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom, that
might intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited like
a knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified and
courteous manners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the subject
of his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the same
time, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awakened
a degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which, at length, induced him
to consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions.

'"Sir knight," said he, "I will attend you to the forest, and will take
with me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference."

'To this, however, the Knight objected.

'"What I would disclose," said he, with solemnity, "is to you alone.
There are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is known;
it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall now
explain. In future years, you will look back to this night with
satisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you
would hereafter prosper--follow me; I pledge you the honour of a
knight, that no evil shall befall you;--if you are contented to dare
futurity--remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came."

'"Sir knight," replied the Baron, "how is it possible, that my future
peace can depend upon my present determination?"

'"That is not now to be told," said the stranger, "I have explained
myself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must be
quickly;--you will do well to consider the alternative."

'The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his
countenance assume a singular solemnity.'

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round the
chamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but, not
perceiving any thing to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again and
pursued the story.]

'The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed by
the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared to
grant, and feared, also, to refuse. At length, he said, "Sir knight, you
are utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself,--is it reasonable, that I
should trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitary
forest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete you
in this chamber."

'The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent;
then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,

'"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster,--and my
deeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my
native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest."

'"Your name is not unknown to fame," said the Baron, "I have heard of
it." (The Knight looked haughtily.) "But why, since my castle is known
to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Why
did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been
welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and stealing to my
chamber, at midnight?"

'The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baron
repeated the questions.

'"I come not," said the Knight, "to answer enquiries, but to reveal
facts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the
honour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety.--Be quick in your
determination--I must be gone."

'After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the
stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he,
therefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the
Knight lead on. The latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the chamber,
they passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised to find
all his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going to
reprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved his hand,
and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter restrained
his resentment, and passed on.

'The Knight, having descended a stair-case, opened a secret door,
which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding
through several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a small
gate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the Baron
followed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secret
passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to return
from an adventure, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well as
danger. Then, considering that he was armed, and observing the courteous
and noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed, that
it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery to
its source.

'He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates of
his castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in
the different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and,
while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate
scene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber,
rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the full
contrast of his present situation.'

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it a
brightening stir.]

'The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety,
expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame
wavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who
often sighed as he went, but did not speak.

'When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, and
raised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closing
his lips in silence, he walked on.

'As they entered, beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron,
affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed,
and demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied only
by a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye,
followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded a
considerable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refused
to proceed unless he was informed.

'As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knight
alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmed
the Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.

'"A little further is the place, whither I would lead you," said the
stranger; "no evil shall befall you--I have sworn it on the honour of a
knight."

'The Baron, re-assured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived
at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnuts
entirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood,
that they proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as he
passed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, reached a spot,
where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, with a terrific
look, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man,
stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound was
on the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted the
features.

'The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked at
the Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body and
examine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, waving
his hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not only
much surprised him, but made him desist.

'But, what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp near
the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the
stranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment and
enquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight change,
and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from his
astonished sense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was
heard to utter these words:--'

[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard a
voice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, he
saw only the dark curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daring
to draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the sea in the
storm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when, concluding,
that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his book to finish
the story.]

'While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter
these words:--*

(* This repetition seems to be intentional. Ludovico is picking up the
thread.)

'The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, lies
before you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyed
from the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of
knighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in christian ground,
and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe, or neglect this,
shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and your
house for ever!'

'The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into which
this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he caused
the body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it was
interred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle,
attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court of
Baron de Brunne.'

Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he felt
drowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking another
glass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair on the hearth. In
his dream he still beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once or
twice, started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man's face,
looking over the high back of his armchair. This idea had so strongly
impressed him, that, when he raised his eyes, he almost expected to
meet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat and looked
behind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no person was
there.

Thus closed the hour.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Ludovico gets set up in the haunted room with a couple of books and waits for the ghosts to show up. In the meantime, we get to hear one of the stories from his books: it's "The Provencal Tale," all about a noble Baron. The Baron gets a visit from a weird knight who asks him to meet him deep in the woods. Once there, the knight shows the Baron the body of a murdered man. Turns out it's the body of the knight himself, who wants the Baron to give him a proper burial and avenge his death. Nice story. Where's Ludovico again? He's drifting off to sleep, barely noticing that a man's face is staring at him from across the room.


prompt:
Chapter: 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, or his voice was
heard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bed-room, 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 gray 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 chateau, 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 farewel;
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,
recognizing 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
an 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 chateau. 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 chateau, 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 chateau.

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 chateau, 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, Dorothee was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery,
leading from the great stair-case into the last anti-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 with-held
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 stair-case, which being, at length, forced, he entered the
first anti-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 bed-room, 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
any where 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 every thing remained as on the preceding
night, but Ludovico was no where 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 risque 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 bed-room, 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 every thing 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 anti-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 anti-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 chateau, 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 chateau 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 Dorothee'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 chateau, 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 Dorothee, 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
Chateau-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 chateau, 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 sympathize 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 chateau 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 chateau.

The Count smiled at this condition. 'Be it so,' said he, 'meanwhile the
convent is so near the chateau, 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 chateau 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 chateau 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 Chateau-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 chateau, 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When the Count goes to find Ludovico, he's vanished from the room. No one can figure out how that's possible, since the room was locked. After about a week, Ludovico is still missing and the mystery remains unsolved. Back to regular castle activity. Du Pont is still hanging around Emily like a lovesick puppy dog, but she's not remotely over Valancourt. Tough luck, buddy. Em goes to visit her old friends at the abbey. You know, the one she stayed at right after her dad's death. While Em is talking to the nuns about the mysterious circumstances of the Marchioness's death, a crazy nun named Agnes keeps piping up. The other nuns tell Em that Agnes is a bit wacky. She can't stop talking about sins and the purgatory of life.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VIII

 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
 Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
 Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,

 I will speak to thee.
     HAMLET

Count de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at
Avignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the
late Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived from
Monsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law on
this subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only person, who
could have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend of Monsieur
Quesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account of the death
of Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as his supposed
accomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was found
guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing being
discovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge,
they were all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by the
senate as a very dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered again
into confinement, where, it was said, he had died in a doubtful and
mysterious manner, and not without suspicion of having been poisoned.
The authority, from which M. Quesnel had received this information,
would not allow him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily, that she had
now only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, to secure them,
and added, that he would himself assist in the necessary forms of this
business. The term, for which La Vallee had been let being now also
nearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumstance, and advised her
to take the road thither, through Tholouse, where he promised to meet
her, and where it would be proper for her to take possession of the
estates of the late Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her
any difficulties, that might occur on that occasion from the want of
knowledge on the subject, and that he believed it would be necessary for
her to be at Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time.

An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness in
M. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more
respect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for the
poor and unfriended orphan.

The pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded
when she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted
the want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but,
remembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked this
melancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude for
the unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no
inconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee, her
native home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the residence
of her parents, would soon be restored to her possession. There she
meant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not be compared
with the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or magnificence, its
pleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, had
claims upon her heart, which she was not inclined to sacrifice to
ostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Quesnel for the active
interest he took in her concerns, and to say, that she would meet him at
Tholouse at the appointed time.

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give
Emily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of
M. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on
the occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expression
of satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity
succeeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.

'It has no new occasion,' replied the Count; 'I am harassed and
perplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their
foolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can
neither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also, very
anxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not been
able to obtain information. Every part of the chateau and every part of
the neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched, and I know not
what further can be done, since I have already offered large rewards
for the discovery of him. The keys of the north apartment I have not
suffered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, and I mean to
watch in those chambers, myself, this very night.'

Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with those
of the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.

'What should I fear?' said he. 'I have no faith in supernatural combats,
and for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will even promise
not to watch alone.'

'But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?' said
Emily.

'My son,' replied the Count. 'If I am not carried off in the night,'
added he, smiling, 'you shall hear the result of my adventure,
tomorrow.'

The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, and
returned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his intention, who,
not without some secret reluctance, consented to be the partner of his
watch; and, when the design was mentioned after supper, the Countess was
terrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating,
that he would not tempt his fate, as Ludovico had done. 'We know not,'
added the Baron, 'the nature, or the power of an evil spirit; and
that such a spirit haunts those chambers can now, I think, scarcely be
doubted. Beware, my lord, how you provoke its vengeance, since it has
already given us one terrible example of its malice. I allow it may be
probable, that the spirits of the dead are permitted to return to the
earth only on occasions of high import; but the present import may be
your destruction.'

The Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you think then, Baron,' said
he, 'that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back
to earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no
occasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any individual.
Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be able to
detect it. You know I am not superstitious.'

'I know that you are incredulous,' interrupted the Baron.

'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I am
free from superstition--if any thing supernatural has appeared, I doubt
not it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house,
or if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with it,
I shall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invite
discovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in good
truth, my friend, is what I most expect, I shall take care to be well
armed.'

The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed
gaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his spirits,
and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son and followed
by the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who all bade him
good night at the outer door. In these chambers every thing appeared
as when he had last been here; even in the bed-room no alteration was
visible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the domestics could
be prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully examining the
chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon the
hearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their swords
upon the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze, began to converse
on indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and abstracted, and
sometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity round the gloomy
apartment; while the Count gradually ceased to converse, and sat either
lost in thought, or reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to
beguile the tediousness of the night.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The Count de Villeforte's been looking into Em's claim to her late aunt's properties, and he's got good news. Kind of. Orsino was executed for murdering the nobleman, while Montoni died in a mysterious manner. There are some whispers that someone finally got him with poison. Since there's no more dispute over the property, it's looking good that Em will get to stake her claim. But the Count can't solve all his problems that easily. Servants are gossiping even more since Ludovico disappeared. Obvious solution: the Count himself will stay overnight in the haunted room with his only son, Henri. Really, it's a flawless plan. The guys settle in for a root-tootin' night full of scary ghosts and mayhem.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER IX

 Give thy thoughts no tongue.
     SHAKESPEARE

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose
early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count's
closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened
by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to
learn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to
observe the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count,
whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count,
then smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with
levity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so closely,
that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, 'Well, my friend,
press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me request
also, that you will hereafter be silent upon any thing you may think
extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that I
am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me to
discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my
reserve.'

'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment
at this denial.

'He is well in his own apartment,' replied the Count. 'You will not
question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.'

'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it would
be displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my
discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me to
suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system, and
are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.'

'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' said the Count; 'you may be
assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me
towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and
my present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the
sincerity of my friendship.'

'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me to
express my surprise, at this silence.'

'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreat
that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thing
remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.'

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on
general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count
met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries
by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,
while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the
north chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return
from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From his
countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was
often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the eager
enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,
and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and
of reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred
there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him
of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask if
he had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look
became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he
smiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to infect
your good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you to expect
a ghost in every dark room. But believe me,' added he, with a profound
sigh, 'the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or sportive
errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.' He paused, and fell into
a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, 'We will say no more on this
subject.'

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she
was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she
had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of
his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whence
Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what rapidity
a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their information
from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose whole
attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on what
was passing in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,
concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash
and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an
evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a
virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke a
good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he could
claim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command the
wicked, and will protect the innocent.

'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let the
Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is
he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly innocence is
but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,
and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'--

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled
Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,
after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her
countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,

'You are young--you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any
great crime!--But you have passions in your heart,--scorpions; they
sleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even unto
death!'

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they
were delivered, could not suppress her tears.

'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its
sternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed.
Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she added, while
her eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,--no peace, no
hope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but now they burn, for
now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no more!'

'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun. 'We are taught to
hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hope
for all who repent!'

'Who repent and turn to the true faith,' observed sister Frances.

'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptly
added, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike from
my memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, like furies, to
torment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they are
still before my eyes! I see them now--now!'

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving
slowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nuns
gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm,
drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply,
said, 'They are gone--they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I
say. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon be
better. Was not that the vesper-bell?'

'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed. Let Margaret lead
you to your cell.'

'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there. Good
night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'

When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Do
not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have not
lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has
been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment
will restore her.'

'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her ideas
followed each other in perfect order.'

'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes
known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in a
moment, start off into madness.'

'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear what
circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'

'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the
question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly
towards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it
worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are at
rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers,
and come either before, or after midnight.'

Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, they
spoke no more of the unhappy nun.

The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one
of those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequently
occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily
subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends.
M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of his
parent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St.
Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it to
her family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, he
had observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obey
the second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting her
favourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once or
twice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience to
the promise he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic
air, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and
there he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal
to his repose. During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but
he received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to
profit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was
no longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discovered
Emily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has
already appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then
encouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made
to overcome it.

The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a
belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain
for him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he, 'will wear away the
melancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and
she will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakened
her gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in
a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. When
her imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readily
accept the homage of a mind like yours.'

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring to
hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to
prolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monastery
of St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment with
sister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a
little table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above,
the dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the door
opened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done so, seated
herself in silence beside the nun's little mattress of straw, till
her orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees, and,
taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceived
there a human scull and bones, lying beside an hour-glass; but the nun,
without observing her emotion, sat down on the mattress by her, saying,
'Your curiosity, sister, has made you punctual, but you have nothing
remarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I avoided
to speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would not
publish her crime to them.'

'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,' said Emily, 'and
will not misuse it.'

'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the dignity
of her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonour
their name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crime
and of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune,
and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whom
she disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her destruction.--Every
obligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned her
marriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would have
fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her father
contrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this,
I never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where he
afterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was
circulated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save his
daughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced her
husband to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You look
surprised,' added the nun, observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow the
story is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.'

'Pray proceed,' said Emily, 'I am interested.'

'The story is already told,' resumed the nun, 'I have only to mention,
that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorse
and a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of our
order, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic and
melancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and settled
melancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been interrupted by
fits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been frequent.'

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose
story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,
who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her
affections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee had
related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped the
vengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocence
of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of the
nun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the
Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, she
asked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she was
then beautiful.

'I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,' replied Frances,
'which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe,
were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not then
preside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was a
very beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always
distinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can
scarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animated
her features.'

'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when her
countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me
fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister Agnes,
before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen
some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have no
recollection.'

'You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,'
said Frances, 'and its impression has probably deluded your imagination;
for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness between you and
Agnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but in this convent,
since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years as
make your age.'

'Indeed!' said Emily.

'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite your
surprise?'

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful,
for a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same period that
the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'

'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation
another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun,
and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-night
bell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the sister's
repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily
returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went
to her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or any
of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, with
concern, that his air was unusually disturbed.

'My spirits are harassed,' said he, in answer to her anxious enquiries,
'and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an experiment,
which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My
daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. It
lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I have
been thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallee, we may go
part of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard you
towards your home.'

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, that
the necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this plan
impracticable. 'But, when you are at the Baron's residence,' she added,
'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir, you
will not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to say
with what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche.'

'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself and
Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you
to be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you there.'

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was
not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by Mademoiselle
Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.

The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and
on the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not succeed
this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that he
was then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and that he wished
her to set off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, with
all possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed him to return
to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and, having taken an
affecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was still
included, and of her friends at the convent, she set out for Tholouse,
attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady servant of the
Count.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Well, whaddya know. When the Baron St. Foix goes to check on the Count de Villeforte and Henri in the morning, they're still there. Em goes to visit the convent again, where she finds the nuns all caught up on the haunted-room sitch. Sister Agnes can't help but wax eloquent about how everyone is guilty of grievous sins. She's definitely a little overexcited about the ghost story. Agnes even succeeds in making Em cry with all her fire-and-brimstone talk. Em can't help but notice that Agnes is acting kind of guilty. Sister Frances promises to tell Em Agnes's story if she comes back later in the night. Meanwhile, Du Pont is still pining over Em. It's revealed that he's the guy who hung around the fishing-house back at La Vallee, watching for his love. Cool it on the creepiness, dude. The Count de Villeforte gives Du Pont some encouraging advice: just wait for Em to get over Valancourt, and she'll be all yours. Back to Em and her quest to find out Agnes's secrets. Em sneaks back to the convent after all the nuns have gone to bed. Sister Frances has the dirt. Looks like Sister Agnes was long ago in love with a poor man whom her father wouldn't let her marry. Instead, Agnes's daddy married her off to a rich guy. Joke's on him, because Agnes cheated on her new husband with her old love. Big mistake, Agnes. To save her from the rich guy's vengeance, Agnes's dad shipped her off to the convent. Voila, Sister Agnes. Since that time, Agnes has been more and more prone to fits of madness. Em can't shake the strange feeling that she knows Agnes from somewhere. Maybe she just has a familiar-looking face? After several more days hanging at the Chateau-le-Blanc, the Count de Villeforte informs Em that he's taking the fam on a road trip to the Baron St. Foix's place. Em takes the opportunity to head on over to Tholouse to check out her new estates. Must be nice, Em.