prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XIV

  Call up him, that left half told
 The story of Cambuscan bold.
     MILTON

On the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining the
library, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette rushed
wildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into a
chair. It was some time before she could answer the anxious enquiries of
Emily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at length, she exclaimed,
'I have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his ghost!'

'Who do you mean?' said Emily, with extreme impatience.

'It came in from the hall, madam,' continued Annette, 'as I was crossing
to the parlour.'

'Who are you speaking of?' repeated Emily, 'Who came in from the hall?

'It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often,' added
Annette. 'Ah! who could have thought--'

Emily's patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimanding her for
such idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her,
that a stranger without begged leave to speak with her.

It immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Valancourt, and
she told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and could not
see any person.

The servant, having delivered his message, returned with one from the
stranger, urging the first request, and saying, that he had something of
consequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat
silent and amazed, now started up, and crying, 'It is Ludovico!--it is
Ludovico!' ran out of the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and,
if it really was Ludovico, to shew him into the parlour.

In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by Annette, who, as
joy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her mistress,
would not suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but herself.
Emily expressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeing Ludovico in safety,
and the first emotions increased, when he delivered letters from
Count De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing her of their late
adventure, and of their present situation at an inn among the Pyrenees,
where they had been detained by the illness of Mons. St. Foix, and the
indisposition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St. Foix was just
arrived to attend his son to his chateau, where he would remain till the
perfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but that
her father and herself purposed to be at La Vallee, on the following
day. She added, that Emily's presence would be expected at the
approaching nuptials, and begged she would be prepared to proceed, in
a few days to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico's adventure,
she referred her to himself; and Emily, though much interested,
concerning the means, by which he had disappeared from the north
apartments, had the forbearance to suspend the gratification of her
curiosity, till he had taken some refreshment, and had conversed with
Annette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not have been more
extravagant, had he arisen from the grave.

Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whose
expressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary consolations
to her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions of
keener sorrow and regret.

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness by
the Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from the
Countess, and the occasion of it was so important to her friend, that
Emily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to remain
in the quiet shades of her native home, could she avoid perceiving the
impropriety of remaining there alone, since Valancourt was again in the
neighbourhood. Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of scenery and
the society of her friends might contribute, more than retirement, to
restore her to tranquillity.

When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a detail of his
adventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he became a
companion of the banditti, with whom the Count had found him.

He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure to
ask him many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen, with a
countenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of her
incredulity, concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and of
her own sagacity in believing in them; while Emily, blushing at the
consciousness of her late credulity, observed, that, if Ludovico's
adventure could justify Annette's superstition, he had probably not been
here to relate it.

Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as
follows:

'You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I sat up in the north
chamber, my lord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompanied me thither, and
that, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm.
When they were gone I made a fire in the bed-room, and, not being
inclined to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a book I had brought
with me to divert my mind. I confess I did sometimes look round the
chamber, with something like apprehension--'

'O very like it, I dare say,' interrupted Annette, 'and I dare say too,
if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot.'

'Not quite so bad as that,' replied Ludovico, smiling, 'but several
times, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook the old
casements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got up
and looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim figures
in the tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them.
I had sat thus for above an hour,' continued Ludovico, 'when again I
thought I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round the room, to discover
what it came from, but, not perceiving any thing, I began to read
again, and, when I had finished the story I was upon, I felt drowsy, and
dropped asleep. But presently I was awakened by the noise I had heard
before, and it seemed to come from that part of the chamber, where the
bed stood; and then, whether it was the story I had been reading that
affected my spirits, or the strange reports, that had been spread of
these apartments, I don't know, but, when I looked towards the bed
again, I fancied I saw a man's face within the dusky curtains.'

At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiously,
remembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with Dorothee.

'I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that instant,' continued
Ludovico, 'but a return of the noise drew my attention from the bed, and
I then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a lock,
but what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the sound
seemed to come from. In the next moment, however, the arras near the
bed was slowly lifted, and a person appeared behind it, entering from
a small door in the wall. He stood for a moment as if half retreating,
with his head bending under the arras which concealed the upper part of
his face except his eyes scowling beneath the tapestry as he held it;
and then, while he raised it higher, I saw the face of another man
behind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it was, but, though
my sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power just then to
seize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half shut as
if I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating what
they should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the same
posture for the value of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived other
faces in the duskiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers.'

'This door surprises me,' said Emily, 'because I understood, that
the Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined,
suspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which you
had departed.'

'It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam,' replied Ludovico,
'that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in a narrow
compartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if the
Count had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless to
search for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicate
with one; but the truth was, that the passage was formed within the
wall itself.--But, to return to the men, whom I saw obscurely beyond the
door, and who did not suffer me to remain long in suspense, concerning
their design. They all rushed into the room, and surrounded me, though
not before I had snatched up my sword to defend myself. But what could
one man do against four? They soon disarmed me, and, having fastened my
arms, and gagged my mouth, forced me through the private door, leaving
my sword upon the table, to assist, as they said, those who should come
in the morning to look for me, in fighting against the ghosts. They then
led me through many narrow passages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls,
for I had never seen them before, and down several flights of steps,
till we came to the vaults underneath the castle; and then opening
a stone door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we went
through a long passage, and down other steps cut in the solid rock, when
another door delivered us into a cave. After turning and twining about,
for some time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself on the
sea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau above. A boat was
in waiting, into which the ruffians got, forcing me along with them,
and we soon reached a small vessel, that was at anchor, where other men
appeared, when setting me aboard, two of the fellows who had seized me,
followed, and the other two rowed back to the shore, while we set sail.
I soon found out what all this meant, and what was the business of these
men at the chateau. We landed in Rousillon, and, after lingering
several days about the shore, some of their comrades came down from the
mountains, and carried me with them to the fort, where I remained till
my Lord so unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to prevent
my running away, having blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if they
had not done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town,
through the wild country we traversed. After I reached the fort I was
watched like a prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two or
three companions, and I became so weary of life, that I often wished to
get rid of it.'

'Well, but they let you talk,' said Annette, 'they did not gagg you
after they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what reason
there was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the chance
you had of seeing me again.'

Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who enquired what was the motive of
these men for carrying him off.

'I soon found out, madam,' resumed Ludovico, 'that they were pirates,
who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of the
castle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well. To
prevent detection they had tried to have it believed, that the chateau
was haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the north
apartments, which had been shut up ever since the death of the lady
marchioness, they easily succeeded. The housekeeper and her husband, who
were the only persons, that had inhabited the castle, for some years,
were so terrified by the strange noises they heard in the nights, that
they would live there no longer; a report soon went abroad, that it
was haunted, and the whole country believed this the more readily, I
suppose, because it had been said, that the lady marchioness had died
in a strange way, and because my lord never would return to the place
afterwards.'

'But why,' said Emily, 'were not these pirates contented with the
cave--why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in the
castle?'

'The cave, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'was open to any body, and their
treasures would not long have remained undiscovered there, but in the
vaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their being
haunted. Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, the
spoil they took on the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities of
disposing of it to advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish
smugglers and banditti, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, and
carry on various kinds of traffic, such as nobody would think of; and
with this desperate horde of banditti I remained, till my lord arrived.
I shall never forget what I felt, when I first discovered him--I almost
gave him up for lost! but I knew, that, if I shewed myself, the banditti
would discover who he was, and probably murder us all, to prevent their
secret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept out of my
lord's sight, but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and determined,
if they offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, and
fight for our lives. Soon after, I overheard some of them laying a most
diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I
contrived to speak to some of my lord's attendants, telling them what
was going forward, and we consulted what was best to be done; meanwhile
my lord, alarmed at the absence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, and
the ruffians having given some unsatisfactory answer, my lord and Mons.
St. Foix became furious, so then we thought it a good time to discover
the plot, and rushing into the chamber, I called out, "Treachery! my
lord count, defend yourself!" His lordship and the chevalier drew their
swords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we conquered at last, as,
madam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count.'

'This is an extraordinary adventure,' said Emily, 'and much praise
is due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are some
circumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which still
perplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you ever
hear the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of these rooms?'

'No, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'I never heard them speak about the
rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, who
once was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the Count
arrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he related
the trick he had played off.'

A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she impatiently desired Ludovico
to explain himself.

'Why, my lady,' said he, 'as this fellow was, one night in the bed-room,
he heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and not having
time to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid himself in
the bed just by. There he lay for some time in as great a fright, I
suppose--'

'As you was in,' interrupted Annette, 'when you sat up so boldly to
watch by yourself.'

'Aye,' said Ludovico, 'in as great a fright as he ever made any body
else suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some other person came up
to the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, bethought
him, that his only chance of escaping detection, was by terrifying them;
so he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised his
face above it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they had seen
the devil, and he got out of the rooms undiscovered.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception,
which had given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised,
that she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she
considered, that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the weakness
of superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction. Still,
however, she remembered with awe the mysterious music, which had been
heard, at midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and she asked Ludovico if he
could give any explanation of it; but he could not.

'I only know, madam,' he added, 'that it did not belong to the pirates,
for I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they believed the devil
was in league with them there.'

'Yes, I will answer for it he was,' said Annette, her countenance
brightening, 'I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had something
to do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I am right at
last.'

'It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very busy in that part of
the chateau,' replied Emily, smiling. 'But I am surprised, Ludovico,
that these pirates should persevere in their schemes, after the arrival
of the Count; what could they expect but certain detection?'

'I have reason to believe, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'that it was their
intention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the removal of
the stores, which were deposited in the vaults; and it appeared, that
they had been employed in doing so from within a short period after the
Count's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the night for
this business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time, the
vaults were not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloried
exceedingly in this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports,
that had been spread of the north chambers, were careful to leave every
thing there as they had found it, the better to promote the deception,
and frequently, in their jocose moods, would laugh at the consternation,
which they believed the inhabitants of the castle had suffered upon
my disappearing, and it was to prevent the possibility of my betraying
their secret, that they had removed me to such a distance. From that
period they considered the chateau as nearly their own; but I found from
the discourse of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, at
first, in shewing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayed
themselves. Going, one night, as was their custom, to the north chambers
to repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm among the servants,
they heard, as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices in
the bed-room. My lord has since told me, that himself and M. Henri
were then in the apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds of
lamentation, which it seems were made by these fellows, with their usual
design of spreading terror; and my lord has owned, he then felt somewhat
more, than surprise; but, as it was necessary to the peace of his
family, that no notice should be taken, he was silent on the subject,
and enjoined silence to his son.'

Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the spirits of
the Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north room, now
perceived the cause of it; and, having made some further enquiries upon
this strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders for
the accommodation of her friends, on the following day.

In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to deliver the ring, with
which Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she presented it, Emily
was much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it often
in happier days. She was, however, much displeased, that Theresa had
received it, and positively refused to accept it herself, though to
have done so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure. Theresa
entreated, expostulated, and then described the distress of Valancourt,
when he had given the ring, and repeated the message, with which he had
commissioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not conceal the extreme
sorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept, and remained lost in
thought.

'Alas! my dear young lady!' said Theresa, 'why should all this be? I
have known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I love
you, as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy. M.
Valancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reason
to love him, as though he was my own son. I know how well you love one
another, or why all this weeping and wailing?' Emily waved her hand for
Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, 'And
how much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if you were
married, you would be the happiest couple in the whole province--then
what is there to prevent your marrying? Dear dear! to see how some
people fling away their happiness, and then cry and lament about it,
just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleasure
in wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learning, to be sure,
is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I had
rather be without it; if it would teach them to be happier, I would say
something to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too.'

Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, but
Emily now endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she felt
the justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain the
circumstances, that had determined her conduct towards Valancourt. She,
therefore, only told Theresa, that it would much displease her to hear
the subject renewed; that she had reasons for her conduct, which she did
not think it proper to mention, and that the ring must be returned, with
an assurance, that she could not accept it with propriety; and, at
the same time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any future message
from Valancourt, as she valued her esteem and kindness. Theresa was
afflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to interest her
for Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, expressed in Emily's
countenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in wonder and
lamentation.

To relieve her mind, in some degree, from the painful recollections,
that intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in preparations for the
journey into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted her, spoke with
joy and affection of the safe return of Ludovico, she was considering
how she might best promote their happiness, and determined, if it
appeared, that his affection was as unchanged as that of the simple and
honest Annette, to give her a marriage portion, and settle them on some
part of her estate. These considerations led her to the remembrance of
her father's paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled
him to dispose of to M. Quesnel, and which she frequently wished to
regain, because St. Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands of his
ancestors had passed into another family, and because they had been his
birth-place and the haunt of his early years. To the estate at Tholouse
she had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of this,
that she might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel could be
prevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in
Italy, did not appear very improbable.

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

completion: Annette's seen a ghost! She storms into Emily's parlour, shaken from head to toe. Yep, the ghost is her sweetheart Ludovico, returned from his adventure beyond the haunted room. Ludovico also bears news that the Count de Villeforte and Blanche are on their way for a visit to La Vallee. Guess they haven't had enough excitement. It's time for Ludovico to tell his crazy story. Emily's practically salivating. Back when Ludovico was waiting up all night for the ghost to arrive, he was surprised to see a man's face. He also hears the distinct sound of a key being turned in a lock. Before Ludovico can say boo, a bunch of men rush out of a secret door in the wall and bind and gag him. Then they take him through a series of passages in the walls of the chateau, finally leading into a cave by the sea. From there, his jailers take him on a boat to the same fort the de Villefortes recently stumbled upon. Yep, the "ghosts" in the Marchioness's room are actually the Smugglers. Pick your jaw off the ground. And it turns out the Smugglers are also pirates by trade, using the Marchioness's room to keep all their stolen goods. Em has a pretty good question: why would the Smugglers go to the trouble to hide all their stuff in the chateau? And Ludovico has the answer. People were always going into the Smugglers' cave. But no one is going into a supposedly haunted room. Anyway, Ludovico happened to hear the ruffians talking about harming the de Villefortes. Ludovico to the rescue! The little wheels in Em's mind are turning. She wants to give Annette and Ludovico a marriage portion and settle them somewhere in her estate. Good lass.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XV

  Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
 The bees' collected treasures sweet,
 Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
 The still, small voice of gratitude.
     GRAY

On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping
Emily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness and
of elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered had
stolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate
simplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was not
less engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had
made the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a
week's stay at La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friends
for Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, during her absence,
to Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, this old servant
brought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her
mistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, or heard of M.
Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she said
this, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter;
but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had
probably returned to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing
to accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which,
with extreme reluctance, she promised to do.

On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady
Blanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the
Chateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom
Emily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and
congratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still
encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that
his affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was much
distressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count,
having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking,
renewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildness, with which
she listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her
sentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourt
being overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably of
M. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he
ventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered
to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently
to remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to
poison the happiness of her most valuable years.

Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he
concluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will still
believe, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always
reject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.'

He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on,
somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead for a
suit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholy
recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly
reached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St.
Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to
extend her walk a little farther, and to enquire about the abbess and
some of her friends among the nuns.

Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the
invitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet some
of her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she
crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards
the sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some
monks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the
woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this
twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention to
be relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look at
nature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for the
sober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an
ancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full
magnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures;
but still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent
of ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick
woods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So much as this had
been admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the
dangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had
renounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils.
As Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she
might have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and remained
in this retirement from the time of her father's death, the vesper-bell
struck up, and the monks retired slowly toward the chapel, while she,
pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silence
seemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she found
vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had
withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before
she returned to the chateau, where, however, the increasing gloom made
her now anxious to be.

Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired
for the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when
she made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be
performed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for some
time, and who was now believed to be dying.

Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the
horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now
yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she
was joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had
power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary
gleam of comfort.

To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting
the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had
herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister
Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very
painful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not
now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many
kind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the
monastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating
upon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon
less interesting subjects.

The wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused
to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat
below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on
a cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the wide
waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of
the following address:

 TO THE WINDS

 Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer,
 Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!
 Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,
 Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
 And, awful! seems to say--some God is near!
 I love to list your midnight voices float
 In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,
 And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,
 Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.
 Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,
 The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,
 A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!
 But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er,
 Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,
 Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,
 And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more!
  Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!
 The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!
 Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,
 Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,
 The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!
 Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs!  I ask alone,
 As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,
 The elemental war, the billow's moan;
 I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!

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

completion: Man, the Count de Villeforte is really laying it on thick trying to convince Em to go for Du Pont. Stop trying to make fetch happen, Count. After hanging out at La Vallee for a while, the Count invites Em back to Chateau-le-Blanc. Yes, these rich people really do bounce back and forth between each other's homes a lot. Once there, Em naturally goes straight on over to her fave place: the convent. It's a bit chaotic at the nunnery. Sister Agnes is apparently on death's door. Em doesn't particularly want to see Sister Agnes dying, so she heads back home. Em stops to write a little ditty about the winds by the chateau. Getting back into a poetic state of mind, are we?


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XVI

  Unnatural deeds
 Do breed unnatural troubles:  infected minds
 To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
 More needs she the divine, than the physician.
     MACBETH

On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among
the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so
much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see
some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walk
to the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat
of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than common
stillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emily
and Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was
crossing to the stair-case, replied to the enquiries of the former, that
sister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought she
could not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several of
the boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little
circumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and
which were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom
she had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbess
entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but
her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. 'Our
house,' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is truly a
house of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of nature.--You
have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,' continued the
abbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare
ourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have
it yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth all
understanding"--the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that
it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good
deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!'

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain;
but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained
silent.

'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary;
would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferings
now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace
hereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she
has long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris.
They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has
hitherto wanted.'

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

'During her illness, she has sometimes named you,' resumed the abbess;
'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors
have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be
too melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however
painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the
soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.'

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her
recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished
once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried.
During the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many minute
circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her--his emotion on
perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc--his
request to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this
monastery--and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy
certain papers, without examining them.--She recollected also the
mysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye
had involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever
she remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning
their full import, and the motives for her father's command, it was
ever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this
particular.

Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by
the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her
companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this
general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur
Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared
much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the
expression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a
distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during
which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak
with caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had
concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the
room. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sister
Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and
Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted
up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had
attended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and
they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes,
with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so
much changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had she
not been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomy
horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which she
held upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not to
perceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bed-side. Then,
turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and,
screaming, exclaimed, 'Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!'

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess,
who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes,
'Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I
thought you would be glad to see her.'

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, 'It
is her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, which
proved my destruction! What would you have--what is it you came to
demand--Retribution?--It will soon be yours--it is yours already.
How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as
yesterday.--Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and
blooming--blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred
deed! O! could I once forget it!--yet what would that avail?--the deed
is done!'

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess,
taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would stay
a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to
sooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed
her eyes on Emily, and added, 'What are years of prayers and repentance?
they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!--Yes, murder! Where is
he--where is he?--Look there--look there!--see where he stalks along
the room! Why do you come to torment me now?' continued Agnes, while her
straining eyes were bent on air, 'why was not I punished before?--O!
do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! 'til she herself! Why do you
look so piteously upon me--and smile, too? smile on me! What groan was
that?'

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support
herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun
were applying the usual remedies to Agnes. 'Peace,' said the abbess,
when Emily was going to speak, 'the delirium is going off, she will soon
revive. When was she thus before, daughter?'

'Not of many weeks, madam,' replied the nun, 'but her spirits have been
much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to
see.'

'Yes,' observed the abbess, 'that has undoubtedly occasioned this
paroxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.'

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little
assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be
necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but
their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded.
It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;
she then said feebly--'The likeness is wonderful!--surely it must
be something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,' she added,
addressing Emily, 'though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the
daughter of the Marchioness?'

'What Marchioness?' said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects were
restored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the
question.

'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'I know but of one--the Marchioness
de Villeroi.'

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected
mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of
the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to
explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn
Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,
repeated her entreaties.

'Bring me that casket, sister,' said Agnes; 'I will shew her to you; yet
you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surely
are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but among
near relations.'

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock
it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact
resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father's
papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly
for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deep
despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had
finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. 'Keep it,' said she,
'I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have
frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this
day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do
not remove the casket--there is another picture I would shew.'

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have
withdrawn her. 'Agnes is still disordered,' said she, 'you observe how
she wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.'

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness,
and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the
subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. 'Here,' said Agnes,
as she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance
between what I was, and what I am.'

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to
fall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, who
had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been
suspected of having caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between
them, which no longer existed.

'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature of
Emily's emotion.

'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, at length; 'was it really
your resemblance?'

'You may well ask that question,' replied the nun,--'but it was once
esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt
has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.
Sister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand
to Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware of the first
indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not
checked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable--they lead us we
know not whither--they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for
which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!--Such may be the
force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears
up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it
leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and
to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend,
it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had
suspended--not annihilated,--to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and
conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new
world around us--we gaze in astonishment, and horror--but the deed
is committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can
undo it--and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are
riches--grandeur--health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the
health of the soul;--and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,
despair--to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since
I knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing
pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair--but these pangs
were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since
endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge--but it was
transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,
sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,
from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy
they who have never been taught the art to govern them!'

'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holy
religion!' Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still
examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its
strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. 'This face is familiar to
me,' said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to
discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.

'You are mistaken,' replied Agnes, 'you certainly never saw that picture
before.'

'No,' replied Emily, 'but I have seen one extremely like it.'
'Impossible,' said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.

'It was in the castle of Udolpho,' continued Emily, looking stedfastly
at her.

'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'of Udolpho in Italy!' 'The same,'
replied Emily.

'You know me then,' said Laurentini, 'and you are the daughter of the
Marchioness.' Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. 'I
am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,' said she; 'and the lady
you name is an utter stranger to me.'

'At least you believe so,' rejoined Laurentini.

Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.

'The family likeness, that you bear her,' said the nun. 'The
Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at the
time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of her
father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!'

Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on
the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more
than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it
was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini
insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them, and
begged, that she would explain them further.

'Do not urge me on that subject,' said the nun, 'it is to me a terrible
one! Would that I could blot it from my memory!' She sighed deeply,
and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had
discovered her name?

'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature
bears a striking resemblance,' replied Emily.

'You have been at Udolpho then!' said the nun, with great emotion.
'Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy--scenes of
happiness--of suffering--and of horror!'

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a
chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she
looked upon the nun--and recollected her late words--that 'years of
prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.' She
was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of
delirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,
she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected
behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily was
still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask
the questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them in
broken sentences.

'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'--said she.

Laurentini groaned.

'The reports that followed it,' continued Emily--'The west chamber--the
mournful veil--the object it conceals!--when murders are committed--'

The nun shrieked. 'What! there again!' said she, endeavouring to raise
herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round
the room--'Come from the grave! What! Blood--blood too!--There was
no blood--thou canst not say it!--Nay, do not smile,--do not smile so
piteously!'

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and
Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried from
the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now
assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted
countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering
further, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. They
received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then
leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived Emily,
whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible surmises, and
perplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that she was unable
to converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she not
wished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. After
waiting some time, she was informed, that, the convulsions having
ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were
departing, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said
she had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late,
she would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the following
day.

Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the
Lady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom of
the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced; for
the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear,
though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too much
engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be
affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served
to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length
recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in
the dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was
impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded
part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all
apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du
Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she
had seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much
earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont
joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the
chateau, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him for
an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visit
to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the village,
begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau.

The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made
M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,
they went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count and the
sprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that
overhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the
French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall
and commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was
something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,
which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a
melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of
constitution, or temper.

The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of
politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle
against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and
abstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in
a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him,
almost fancied she beheld her late father.

The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her
apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to
her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have
discovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by
Montoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,
excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,
which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth,
occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different
nature.

The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to
be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose
it had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true
story, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited
as to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi
bore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed
between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his
request to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found
among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that
he might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness was
attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but
that he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not suffer
herself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnly
enjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection,
and she wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, that
made him consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith in
his principles been less, would have led to believe, that there was
a mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which those
manuscripts might have revealed.

Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater part
of the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was only
to behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, like
those she had witnessed.

On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her
appointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard,
that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence,
with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so much
affected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quitting
the apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to him,
than the confession he had been then called upon to witness. However
this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a knowledge
of the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and the
extravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involving
him in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison; and it was
the grief he had suffered from the wild career of a favourite son, with
the pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent upon it, that
had given to his countenance the air of dejection, which had so much
interested Emily.

To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late
sufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for several
months in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release,
and without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in the
country, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from his
friends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, she
was so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow had
made in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by their
long continuance, threatened her life.

'Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,' continued
Mons. Bonnac, 'and one generous friend, who was in confinement at the
same time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in
efforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed
me, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the
obligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I have
reason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and that he
returned to the state of confinement, from which he had released me;
but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunate
Valancourt!'

'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. 'Of what family?'

'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,' replied Mons. Bonnac.

The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous benefactor
of his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but,
having overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the apprehensions of
Mons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and had
lately been in Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily prompted
him to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, during
his stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to be well informed. The
answers he received were such as convinced him, that Valancourt had been
much misrepresented, and, painful as was the sacrifice, he formed the
just design of relinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who, it
now appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with which she honoured
him.

The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some
time after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, which
determined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chiefly
divided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and those
gaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brother
officers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lost
large sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses the
Count De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. His
resources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother,
exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessary
to his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence of
accumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brother
suffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect a
reform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.

In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection,
and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst
the dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliterated
from his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, to
reproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his talents
by pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have taught him
to consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But, though his
passions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor had habit
riveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and, as he
retained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them, he, at
length, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not till after
much effort and severe suffering.

Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed
the affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he
had been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed a
striking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly all
the money, just received from his brother, he went to a gaming-house,
and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring his friend to
freedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was fortunate, and,
while he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake, he made a solemn
vow never again to yield to the destructive and fascinating vice of
gaming.

Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he
hurried from Paris to Estuviere; and, in the delight of having made the
wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however,
he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without which he
could never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with her,
now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement, and
simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if possible,
to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taught
him to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had before
admired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the world
made him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs of
remorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompanied
him even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself no
longer worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligations
from the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the
Count De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the
depredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; and
these were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against the
unfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from authority which
he had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he had
himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the more
readily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the Chevalier,
he had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he confessed
himself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he was
confirming to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had been
mutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained the conduct of
his generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severe
justice, determined not only to undeceive the Count on this subject, but
to resign all hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love rendered
this, was deserving of a noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been
possible for him to forget the benevolent Valancourt, would have wished
that Emily might accept the just Du Pont.

When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was
extremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account
which Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situation, while at Paris,
convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a
set of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obliged
him to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmed
by the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his conduct
towards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors,
that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree of
esteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early acquaintance.
But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was to
afford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct,
he immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the unintentional
injury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motives
of delicacy with-held the Count from informing Emily of this letter,
and of kindness from acquainting her with the discovery respecting
Valancourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility of
anxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared her even severer
inquietude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of the
symptoms of despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had betrayed.

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

completion: The next day, Em runs into the abbess while walking around the chateau. It's a small world. The abbess invites Em back to the convent again, telling her that Agnes mentions her name frequently. Well, Em gets a special reception when she visits Agnes. Agnes screams at her: "Ah! That vision comes upon me in my dying hours!" That's one way to say hello. Turns out Agnes thinks Em is the daughter of the Marchioness. That's right, the Marchioness who died under suspicious circumstances at the Chateau-le-Blanc. In fact, Agnes has a picture to prove that Em is the spitting image of the Marchioness. And Agnes has another picture she wants to show Em: this one's of Agnes in her glory days. Hold up. It's a picture of Signora Laurentini, the former owner of Udolpho in Italy. Y'know, the one who disappeared in the woods and was never seen again? Worlds colliding. Yep, Agnes is really Signora Laurentini. Looks like the story Sister Frances told Em was a bunch of crock. Instead, Agnes-turned-Signora-Laurentini is going to tell her real story. Apparently, she was head-over-heels in love with the Marquis of Chateau-le-Blanc. He loved her back, but he was with the Marchioness. Not to be foiled, the Marquis and Signora Laurentini plotted to murder the Marchioness with poison. Once she was out of the way, the Marquis had a change of heart and suddenly wasn't so much into his fellow-murderer. He headed off to live out his days in guilt and left the Signora Laurentini broken-hearted. Em's not really sure if the Marchioness really is her mom. After all, her dad did have a picture of the Marchioness in his secret pile of papers. If the Signora Laurentini switcheroo isn't crazy-town enough, check this out: Du Pont has a buddy named Monsieur Bonnac who's in town. Bonnac happens to know Valancourt, and he's only got good things to say. Turns out Valancourt bailed him out of prison and paid off all his debts, just out of the goodness of his heart. What's more, Valancourt restored Bonnac to his ailing wife, who was having a tough time without her husband by her side. So even though Valancourt was into the gambling for a while, he shaped up and did what was right. And he didn't really squander away all of his money. The guy actually gave it away! Once the Count de Villeforte hears of Valancourt's true character, he's totally shocked. Valancourt might just be worthy of Emily.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER XVII

  But in these cases,
 We still have judgment here; that we but teach
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
 To plague the inventor:  thus even-handed justice
 Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
 To our own lips.
     MACBETH

Some circumstances of an extraordinary nature now withdrew Emily from
her own sorrows, and excited emotions, which partook of both surprise
and horror.

A few days followed that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her will
was opened at the monastery, in the presence of the superiors and Mons.
Bonnac, when it was found, that one third of her personal property was
bequeathed to the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness de
Villeroi, and that Emily was the person.

With the secret of Emily's family the abbess had long been acquainted,
and it was in observance of the earnest request of St. Aubert, who
was known to the friar, that attended him on his death-bed, that
his daughter had remained in ignorance of her relationship to the
Marchioness. But some hints, which had fallen from Signora Laurentini,
during her last interview with Emily, and a confession of a very
extraordinary nature, given in her dying hours, had made the abbess
think it necessary to converse with her young friend, on the topic she
had not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this purpose, that
she had requested to see her on the morning that followed her interview
with the nun. Emily's indisposition had then prevented the intended
conversation; but now, after the will had been examined, she received
a summons, which she immediately obeyed, and became informed of
circumstances, that powerfully affected her. As the narrative of the
abbess was, however, deficient in many particulars, of which the reader
may wish to be informed, and the history of the nun is materially
connected with the fate of the Marchioness de Villeroi, we shall omit
the conversation, that passed in the parlour of the convent, and mingle
with our relation a brief history of

 LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO,

Who was the only child of her parents, and heiress of the ancient house
of Udolpho, in the territory of Venice. It was the first misfortune
of her life, and that which led to all her succeeding misery, that the
friends, who ought to have restrained her strong passions, and mildly
instructed her in the art of governing them, nurtured them by early
indulgence. But they cherished their own failings in her; for their
conduct was not the result of rational kindness, and, when they either
indulged, or opposed the passions of their child, they gratified their
own. Thus they indulged her with weakness, and reprehended her with
violence; her spirit was exasperated by their vehemence, instead of
being corrected by their wisdom; and their oppositions became contest
for victory, in which the due tenderness of the parents, and the
affectionate duties of the child, were equally forgotten; but, as
returning fondness disarmed the parents' resentment soonest, Laurentini
was suffered to believe that she had conquered, and her passions became
stronger by every effort, that had been employed to subdue them.

The death of her father and mother in the same year left her to her own
discretion, under the dangerous circumstances attendant on youth
and beauty. She was fond of company, delighted with admiration, yet
disdainful of the opinion of the world, when it happened to contradict
her inclinations; had a gay and brilliant wit, and was mistress of
all the arts of fascination. Her conduct was such as might have been
expected, from the weakness of her principles and the strength of her
passions.

Among her numerous admirers was the late Marquis de Villeroi, who, on
his tour through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice, where she usually
resided, and became her passionate adorer. Equally captivated by the
figure and accomplishments of the Marquis, who was at that period one of
the most distinguished noblemen of the French court, she had the art so
effectually to conceal from him the dangerous traits of her character
and the blemishes of her late conduct, that he solicited her hand in
marriage.

Before the nuptials were concluded, she retired to the castle of
Udolpho, whither the Marquis followed, and, where her conduct, relaxing
from the propriety, which she had lately assumed, discovered to him
the precipice, on which he stood. A minuter enquiry than he had before
thought it necessary to make, convinced him, that he had been deceived
in her character, and she, whom he had designed for his wife, afterwards
became his mistress.

Having passed some weeks at Udolpho, he was called abruptly to France,
whither he returned with extreme reluctance, for his heart was still
fascinated by the arts of Laurentini, with whom, however, he had on
various pretences delayed his marriage; but, to reconcile her to this
separation, he now gave repeated promises of returning to conclude
the nuptials, as soon as the affair, which thus suddenly called him to
France, should permit.

Soothed, in some degree, by these assurances, she suffered him to
depart; and, soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving at Udolpho,
renewed the addresses, which she had before refused, and which she now
again rejected. Meanwhile, her thoughts were constantly with the Marquis
de Villeroi, for whom she suffered all the delirium of Italian love,
cherished by the solitude, to which she confined herself; for she
had now lost all taste for the pleasures of society and the gaiety of
amusement. Her only indulgences were to sigh and weep over a miniature
of the Marquis; to visit the scenes, that had witnessed their happiness,
to pour forth her heart to him in writing, and to count the weeks, the
days, which must intervene before the period that he had mentioned as
probable for his return. But this period passed without bringing
him; and week after week followed in heavy and almost intolerable
expectation. During this interval, Laurentini's fancy, occupied
incessantly by one idea, became disordered; and, her whole heart being
devoted to one object, life became hateful to her, when she believed
that object lost.

Several months passed, during which she heard nothing from the Marquis
de Villeroi, and her days were marked, at intervals, with the phrensy
of passion and the sullenness of despair. She secluded herself from all
visitors, and, sometimes, remained in her apartment, for weeks
together, refusing to speak to every person, except her favourite female
attendant, writing scraps of letters, reading, again and again, those
she had received from the Marquis, weeping over his picture, and
speaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding, reproaching and caressing it
alternately.

At length, a report reached her, that the Marquis had married in France,
and, after suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy and indignation,
she formed the desperate resolution of going secretly to that country,
and, if the report proved true, of attempting a deep revenge. To her
favourite woman only she confided the plan of her journey, and she
engaged her to partake of it. Having collected her jewels, which,
descending to her from many branches of her family, were of immense
value, and all her cash, to a very large amount, they were packed in
a trunk, which was privately conveyed to a neighbouring town, whither
Laurentini, with this only servant, followed, and thence proceeded
secretly to Leghorn, where they embarked for France.

When, on her arrival in Languedoc, she found, that the Marquis de
Villeroi had been married, for some months, her despair almost deprived
her of reason, and she alternately projected and abandoned the horrible
design of murdering the Marquis, his wife and herself. At length she
contrived to throw herself in his way, with an intention of reproaching
him, for his conduct, and of stabbing herself in his presence; but,
when she again saw him, who so long had been the constant object of
her thoughts and affections, resentment yielded to love; her resolution
failed; she trembled with the conflict of emotions, that assailed her
heart, and fainted away.

The Marquis was not proof against her beauty and sensibility; all the
energy, with which he had first loved, returned, for his passion had
been resisted by prudence, rather than overcome by indifference; and,
since the honour of his family would not permit him to marry her, he had
endeavoured to subdue his love, and had so far succeeded, as to select
the then Marchioness for his wife, whom he loved at first with a
tempered and rational affection. But the mild virtues of that amiable
lady did not recompense him for her indifference, which appeared,
notwithstanding her efforts to conceal it; and he had, for some time,
suspected that her affections were engaged by another person, when
Laurentini arrived in Languedoc. This artful Italian soon perceived,
that she had regained her influence over him, and, soothed by the
discovery, she determined to live, and to employ all her enchantments to
win his consent to the diabolical deed, which she believed was necessary
to the security of her happiness. She conducted her scheme with deep
dissimulation and patient perseverance, and, having completely estranged
the affections of the Marquis from his wife, whose gentle goodness and
unimpassioned manners had ceased to please, when contrasted with the
captivations of the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his mind the
jealousy of pride, for it was no longer that of love, and even pointed
out to him the person, to whom she affirmed the Marchioness had
sacrificed her honour; but Laurentini had first extorted from him a
solemn promise to forbear avenging himself upon his rival. This was
an important part of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire of
vengeance was restrained towards one party, it would burn more fiercely
towards the other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed on to assist
in the horrible act, which would release him from the only barrier, that
with-held him from making her his wife.

The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with extreme grief, the
alteration in her husband's manners. He became reserved and thoughtful
in her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes even rude; and
he left her, for many hours together, to weep for his unkindness, and to
form plans for the recovery of his affection. His conduct afflicted her
the more, because, in obedience to the command of her father, she had
accepted his hand, though her affections were engaged to another, whose
amiable disposition, she had reason to believe, would have ensured her
happiness. This circumstance Laurentini had discovered, soon after her
arrival in France, and had made ample use of it in assisting her designs
upon the Marquis, to whom she adduced such seeming proof of his wife's
infidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he consented to
destroy his wife. A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim
to the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weakness of
her husband.

But the moment of Laurentini's triumph, the moment, to which she had
looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only the
commencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour.

The passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to the
commission of this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it was
gratified, and left her to the horrors of unavailing pity and remorse,
which would probably have empoisoned all the years she had promised
herself with the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expectations of an
alliance with him been realized. But he, too, had found the moment of
his revenge to be that of remorse, as to himself, and detestation, as
to the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he had mistaken for
conviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, and aghast, that no
proof remained of his wife's infidelity, now that she had suffered the
punishment of guilt. Even when he was informed, that she was dying, he
had felt suddenly and unaccountably reassured of her innocence, nor was
the solemn assurance she made him in her last hour, capable of affording
him a stronger conviction of her blameless conduct.

In the first horrors of remorse and despair, he felt inclined to deliver
up himself and the woman, who had plunged him into this abyss of guilt,
into the hands of justice; but, when the paroxysm of his suffering
was over, his intention changed. Laurentini, however, he saw only once
afterwards, and that was, to curse her as the instigator of his crime,
and to say, that he spared her life only on condition, that she
passed the rest of her days in prayer and penance. Overwhelmed with
disappointment, on receiving contempt and abhorrence from the man,
for whose sake she had not scrupled to stain her conscience with
human blood, and, touched with horror of the unavailing crime she had
committed, she renounced the world, and retired to the monastery of St.
Claire, a dreadful victim to unresisted passion.

The Marquis, immediately after the death of his wife, quitted
Chateau-le-Blanc, to which he never returned, and endeavoured to lose
the sense of his crime amidst the tumult of war, or the dissipations
of a capital; but his efforts were vain; a deep dejection hung over him
ever after, for which his most intimate friend could not account, and
he, at length, died, with a degree of horror nearly equal to that, which
Laurentini had suffered. The physician, who had observed the singular
appearance of the unfortunate Marchioness, after death, had been bribed
to silence; and, as the surmises of a few of the servants had proceeded
no further than a whisper, the affair had never been investigated.
Whether this whisper ever reached the father of the Marchioness, and,
if it did, whether the difficulty of obtaining proof deterred him from
prosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi, is uncertain; but her death was
deeply lamented by some part of her family, and particularly by her
brother, M. St. Aubert; for that was the degree of relationship, which
had existed between Emily's father and the Marchioness; and there is no
doubt, that he suspected the manner of her death. Many letters passed
between the Marquis and him, soon after the decease of his beloved
sister, the subject of which was not known, but there is reason to
believe, that they related to the cause of her death; and these were the
papers, together with some letters of the Marchioness, who had confided
to her brother the occasion of her unhappiness, which St. Aubert had so
solemnly enjoined his daughter to destroy: and anxiety for her peace had
probably made him forbid her to enquire into the melancholy story,
to which they alluded. Such, indeed, had been his affliction, on the
premature death of this his favourite sister, whose unhappy marriage had
from the first excited his tenderest pity, that he never could hear
her named, or mention her himself after her death, except to Madame St.
Aubert. From Emily, whose sensibility he feared to awaken, he had so
carefully concealed her history and name, that she was ignorant, till
now, that she ever had such a relative as the Marchioness de Villeroi;
and from this motive he had enjoined silence to his only surviving
sister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulously observed his request.

It was over some of the last pathetic letters of the Marchioness, that
St. Aubert was weeping, when he was observed by Emily, on the eve of
her departure from La Vallee, and it was her picture, which he had so
tenderly caressed. Her disastrous death may account for the emotion he
had betrayed, on hearing her named by La Voisin, and for his request to
be interred near the monument of the Villerois, where her remains were
deposited, but not those of her husband, who was buried, where he died,
in the north of France.

The confessor, who attended St. Aubert in his last moments, recollected
him to be the brother of the late Marchioness, when St. Aubert, from
tenderness to Emily, had conjured him to conceal the circumstance, and
to request that the abbess, to whose care he particularly recommended
her, would do the same; a request, which had been exactly observed.

Laurentini, on her arrival in France, had carefully concealed her
name and family, and, the better to disguise her real history, had,
on entering the convent, caused the story to be circulated, which had
imposed on sister Frances, and it is probable, that the abbess, who did
not preside in the convent, at the time of her noviciation, was also
entirely ignorant of the truth. The deep remorse, that seized on
the mind of Laurentini, together with the sufferings of disappointed
passion, for she still loved the Marquis, again unsettled her
intellects, and, after the first paroxysms of despair were passed, a
heavy and silent melancholy had settled upon her spirits, which suffered
few interruptions from fits of phrensy, till the time of her death.
During many years, it had been her only amusement to walk in the woods
near the monastery, in the solitary hours of night, and to play upon
a favourite instrument, to which she sometimes joined the delightful
melody of her voice, in the most solemn and melancholy airs of her
native country, modulated by all the energetic feeling, that dwelt in
her heart. The physician, who had attended her, recommended it to the
superior to indulge her in this whim, as the only means of soothing her
distempered fancy; and she was suffered to walk in the lonely hours of
night, attended by the servant, who had accompanied her from Italy; but,
as the indulgence transgressed against the rules of the convent, it was
kept as secret as possible; and thus the mysterious music of Laurentini
had combined with other circumstances, to produce a report, that not
only the chateau, but its neighbourhood, was haunted.

Soon after her entrance into this holy community, and before she had
shewn any symptoms of insanity there, she made a will, in which, after
bequeathing a considerable legacy to the convent, she divided the
remainder of her personal property, which her jewels made very valuable,
between the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was an Italian lady and her
relation, and the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness
de Villeroi. As Emily St. Aubert was not only the nearest, but the sole
relative, this legacy descended to her, and thus explained to her the
whole mystery of her father's conduct.

The resemblance between Emily and her unfortunate aunt had frequently
been observed by Laurentini, and had occasioned the singular behaviour,
which had formerly alarmed her; but it was in the nun's dying hour, when
her conscience gave her perpetually the idea of the Marchioness, that
she became more sensible, than ever, of this likeness, and, in her
phrensy, deemed it no resemblance of the person she had injured, but the
original herself. The bold assertion, that had followed, on the recovery
of her senses, that Emily was the daughter of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, arose from a suspicion that she was so; for, knowing that her
rival, when she married the Marquis, was attached to another lover, she
had scarcely scrupled to believe, that her honour had been sacrificed,
like her own, to an unresisted passion.

Of a crime, however, to which Emily had suspected, from her phrensied
confession of murder, that she had been instrumental in the castle of
Udolpho, Laurentini was innocent; and she had herself been deceived,
concerning the spectacle, that formerly occasioned her so much terror,
and had since compelled her, for a while, to attribute the horrors of
the nun to a consciousness of a murder, committed in that castle.

It may be remembered, that, in a chamber of Udolpho, hung a black
veil, whose singular situation had excited Emily's curiosity, and which
afterwards disclosed an object, that had overwhelmed her with horror;
for, on lifting it, there appeared, instead of the picture she had
expected, within a recess of the wall, a human figure of ghastly
paleness, stretched at its length, and dressed in the habiliments of
the grave. What added to the horror of the spectacle, was, that the face
appeared partly decayed and disfigured by worms, which were visible on
the features and hands. On such an object, it will be readily believed,
that no person could endure to look twice. Emily, it may be recollected,
had, after the first glance, let the veil drop, and her terror had
prevented her from ever after provoking a renewal of such suffering, as
she had then experienced. Had she dared to look again, her delusion and
her fears would have vanished together, and she would have perceived,
that the figure before her was not human, but formed of wax. The history
of it is somewhat extraordinary, though not without example in the
records of that fierce severity, which monkish superstition has
sometimes inflicted on mankind. A member of the house of Udolpho, having
committed some offence against the prerogative of the church, had been
condemned to the penance of contemplating, during certain hours of the
day, a waxen image, made to resemble a human body in the state, to which
it is reduced after death. This penance, serving as a memento of the
condition at which he must himself arrive, had been designed to
reprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly so
much exasperated that of the Romish church; and he had not only
superstitiously observed this penance himself, which, he had believed,
was to obtain a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a condition
in his will, that his descendants should preserve the image, on pain of
forfeiting to the church a certain part of his domain, that they
also might profit by the humiliating moral it conveyed. The figure,
therefore, had been suffered to retain its station in the wall of the
chamber, but his descendants excused themselves from observing the
penance, to which he had been enjoined.

This image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising Emily
should have mistaken it for the object it resembled, nor, since she had
heard such an extraordinary account, concerning the disappearing of the
late lady of the castle, and had such experience of the character of
Montoni, that she should have believed this to be the murdered body of
the lady Laurentini, and that he had been the contriver of her death.

The situation, in which she had discovered it, occasioned her, at first,
much surprise and perplexity; but the vigilance, with which the doors
of the chamber, where it was deposited, were afterwards secured, had
compelled her to believe, that Montoni, not daring to confide the secret
of her death to any person, had suffered her remains to decay in this
obscure chamber. The ceremony of the veil, however, and the circumstance
of the doors having been left open, even for a moment, had occasioned
her much wonder and some doubts; but these were not sufficient to
overcome her suspicion of Montoni; and it was the dread of his terrible
vengeance, that had sealed her lips in silence, concerning what she had
seen in the west chamber.

Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been the
sister of Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst the
sorrow, which she suffered for her untimely death, she was released from
an anxious and painful conjecture, occasioned by the rash assertion of
Signora Laurentini, concerning her birth and the honour of her parents.
Her faith in St. Aubert's principles would scarcely allow her to suspect
that he had acted dishonourably; and she felt such reluctance to
believe herself the daughter of any other, than her, whom she had always
considered and loved as a mother, that she would hardly admit such a
circumstance to be possible; yet the likeness, which it had frequently
been affirmed she bore to the late Marchioness, the former behaviour
of Dorothee the old housekeeper, the assertion of Laurentini, and the
mysterious attachment, which St. Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts,
as to his connection with the Marchioness, which her reason could
neither vanquish, or confirm. From these, however, she was now relieved,
and all the circumstances of her father's conduct were fully explained:
but her heart was oppressed by the melancholy catastrophe of her
amiable relative, and by the awful lesson, which the history of the
nun exhibited, the indulgence of whose passions had been the means of
leading her gradually to the commission of a crime, from the prophecy
of which in her early years she would have recoiled in horror, and
exclaimed--that it could not be!--a crime, which whole years of
repentance and of the severest penance had not been able to obliterate
from her conscience.

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

completion: Unfortunately, Signora Laurentini/Agnes passes away after her big confession. Fortunately, she's left a big chunk of money and estates to Em, including Udolpho. Em just can't get away from her favorite place. Let's get a little more context on our favorite lady-turned-nun before closing the book on her. She was a spoiled child who grew into a dangerous beauty and fell hard for the Marquis de Villeroi when he was on a trip through Venice. And man, was the Signora jealous when he married the Marchioness. She convinced the Marquis to administer a slow-working poison to his dear wife and sit back and let her die slowly. Not a nice lady. But here's what Em's really worried about: was the Marchioness her mom? Nope, says the friar who was with St. Aubert in his last moments. Here's a soap opera twist coming atcha: St. Aubert was the Marchioness's brother. It all makes sense now. Since we're revealing all the big secrets now, you might wonder about what Em saw under the black-veiled picture at Udolpho. Remember how Em didn't feel like telling us what she saw? Well, it was a partially decayed wax figure that looked like it was disfigured by worms. What the heck? Clearly, Em is pretty shaken up by this series of revelations. However, she's also super, super rich.