prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VII

 Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names
 On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
      MILTON

It is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not be
related amidst the events of Emily's hasty departure from Venice, or
together with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in the
castle.

On the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointed
hour to the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride. When he reached
it, he was somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of the
portico, where Montoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprise
was soon changed to astonishment, and astonishment to the rage of
disappointment, when the door was opened by an old woman, who told his
servants, that her master and his family had left Venice, early in the
morning, for terra-firma. Scarcely believing what his servants told, he
left his gondola, and rushed into the hall to enquire further. The old
woman, who was the only person left in care of the mansion, persisted in
her story, which the silent and deserted apartments soon convinced him
was no fiction. He then seized her with a menacing air, as if he meant
to wreak all his vengeance upon her, at the same time asking her twenty
questions in a breath, and all these with a gesticulation so furious,
that she was deprived of the power of answering them; then suddenly
letting her go, he stamped about the hall, like a madman, cursing
Montoni and his own folly.

When the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from her
fright, she told him all she knew of the affair, which was, indeed, very
little, but enough to enable Morano to discover, that Montoni was gone
to his castle on the Apennine. Thither he followed, as soon as his
servants could complete the necessary preparation for the journey,
accompanied by a friend, and attended by a number of his people,
determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on Montoni. When his mind
had recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and his
thoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him certain
circumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct of Montoni:
but how the latter could have been led to suspect an intention, which,
he had believed, was known only to himself, he could not even guess. On
this occasion, however, he had been partly betrayed by that sympathetic
intelligence, which may be said to exist between bad minds, and which
teaches one man to judge what another will do in the same circumstances.
Thus it was with Montoni, who had now received indisputable proof of a
truth, which he had some time suspected--that Morano's circumstances,
instead of being affluent, as he had been bidden to believe, were
greatly involved. Montoni had been interested in his suit, by motives
entirely selfish, those of avarice and pride; the last of which would
have been gratified by an alliance with a Venetian nobleman, the former
by Emily's estate in Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the price of
his favour, should be delivered up to him from the day of her marriage.
In the meantime, he had been led to suspect the consequence of the
Count's boundless extravagance; but it was not till the evening,
preceding the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain information
of his distressed circumstances. He did not hesitate then to infer,
that Morano designed to defraud him of Emily's estate; and in this
supposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by the
subsequent conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet him
on that night, for the purpose of signing the instrument, which was to
secure to him his reward, failed in his engagement. Such a circumstance,
indeed, in a man of Morano's gay and thoughtless character, and at a
time when his mind was engaged by the bustle of preparation for his
nuptials, might have been attributed to a cause less decisive, than
design; but Montoni did not hesitate an instant to interpret it his own
way, and, after vainly waiting the Count's arrival, for several hours,
he gave orders for his people to be in readiness to set off at a
moment's notice. By hastening to Udolpho he intended to remove Emily
from the reach of Morano, as well as to break off the affair, without
submitting himself to useless altercation: and, if the Count meant what
he called honourably, he would doubtless follow Emily, and sign the
writings in question. If this was done, so little consideration had
Montoni for her welfare, that he would not have scrupled to sacrifice
her to a man of ruined fortune, since by that means he could enrich
himself; and he forbore to mention to her the motive of his sudden
journey, lest the hope it might revive should render her more
intractable, when submission would be required.

With these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others totally
different, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across the rugged
Apennines. When his arrival was announced at the castle, Montoni did
not believe, that he would have presumed to shew himself, unless he had
meant to fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily admitted him;
but the enraged countenance and expressions of Morano, as he entered the
apartment, instantly undeceived him; and, when Montoni had explained, in
part, the motives of his abrupt departure from Venice, the Count still
persisted in demanding Emily, and reproaching Montoni, without even
naming the former stipulation.

Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling of
it till the morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested by
Montoni's apparent indecision. When, however, in the silence of his own
apartment, he began to consider the past conversation, the character of
Montoni, and some former instances of his duplicity, the hope, which
he had admitted, vanished, and he determined not to neglect the present
possibility of obtaining Emily by other means. To his confidential
valet he told his design of carrying away Emily, and sent him back to
Montoni's servants to find out one among them, who might enable him to
execute it. The choice of this person he entrusted to the fellow's own
discernment, and not imprudently; for he discovered a man, whom Montoni
had, on some former occasion, treated harshly, and who was now ready
to betray him. This man conducted Cesario round the castle, through a
private passage, to the stair-case, that led to Emily's chamber; then
shewed him a short way out of the building, and afterwards procured him
the keys, that would secure his retreat. The man was well rewarded for
his trouble; how the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had already
appeared.

Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano's servants, who had
been ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castle
walls, expressing their surprise at their master's sudden, and secret
departure, for the valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano's
designs, than it was necessary for them to execute. They, however,
indulged themselves in surmises, and in expressing them to each other;
and from these Carlo had drawn a just conclusion. But, before he
ventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, he endeavoured to
obtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, placed
himself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily's
apartment, that opened upon the corridor. He did not watch long in vain,
though the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him. When he was
convinced, that Morano was in the room, and had listened long enough
to his conversation, to understand his scheme, he immediately alarmed
Montoni, and thus rescued Emily from the designs of the Count.

Montoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except that
he wore his wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts;
overlooked the men employed in repairing them; gave orders for
additional workmen, and then came into the castle to give audience
to several persons, who were just arrived, and who were shewn into a
private apartment, where he communicated with them, for near an hour.
Carlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to a part
of the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the upper
servants of the family, and to provide them with every necessary
refreshment.--When he had done this, he was bidden to return to his
master.

Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woods
below, suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deep
revenge against Montoni. His servant, whom he had dispatched for a
surgeon to the nearest town, which was, however, at a considerable
distance, did not return till the following day, when, his wounds being
examined and dressed, the practitioner refused to deliver any positive
opinion, concerning the degree of danger attending them; but giving his
patient a composing draught and ordering him to be quiet, remained at
the cottage to watch the event.

Emily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been suffered
to sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the confusion
of slumber, and she remembered, that she was now released from the
addresses of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenly relieved from a
part of the terrible anxiety, that had long oppressed them; that which
remained, arose chiefly from a recollection of Morano's assertions,
concerning the schemes of Montoni. He had said, that plans of the
latter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet that he knew them to
be terrible. At the time he uttered this, she almost believed it to be
designed for the purpose of prevailing with her to throw herself into
his protection, and she still thought it might be chiefly so accounted
for; but his assertions had left an impression on her mind, which a
consideration of the character and former conduct of Montoni did not
contribute to efface. She, however, checked her propensity to anticipate
evil; and, determined to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune,
tried to dismiss thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placed
herself at a window, to select into a landscape some features of the
scenery without.

As she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, the
men, who had so lately arrived at the castle. The sight of strangers
surprised her, but still more, of strangers such as these. There was a
singularity in their dress, and a certain fierceness in their air, that
fixed all her attention. She withdrew from the casement, while they
passed, but soon returned to observe them further. Their figures seemed
so well suited to the wildness of the surrounding objects, that, as they
stood surveying the castle, she sketched them for banditti, amid the
mountain-view of her picture, when she had finished which, she was
surprised to observe the spirit of her group. But she had copied from
nature.

Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the apartment
assigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, who was
anxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle had been
delivered to Morano, on the preceding night. But this man, though he was
too faithful to his master quietly to see him injured, would not
betray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore, pretended to be
ignorant who it was, that had conspired with Count Morano, and related,
as before, that he had only overheard some of the strangers describing
the plot.

Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered now
to attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to seek him.

Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance so
steady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty,
though he knew not how to think him innocent. At length, the man was
dismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escaped
detection.

Montoni then went to his wife's apartment, whither Emily followed soon
after, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving the
room, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.--'You
shall be a witness,' said she, 'of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat the
command, I have so often refused to obey.'

Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quit
the apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she would
stay. Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, and
anxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliating
Montoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed terribly.

'Leave the room,' said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and,
walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, continued
to meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister, and on her
own desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous imprudence of her,
whom she had always wished to respect and love. Madame Montoni's conduct
had, indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily to do either; but
her gentle heart was touched by her distress, and, in the pity thus
awakened, she forgot the injurious treatment she had received from her.

As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door,
looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.

'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,' said
she. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'

'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.

'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo just
now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. As
to my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such things to
her.'--

'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to somebody--'

'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if one
must not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk--it
would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls.
But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the picture.'

'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 'what
makes you look so pale?--are you ill?'

'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this
picture; return into the hall.'

'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl--'the
lady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to the
furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such a
picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makes
me care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as it
were, whenever I think of it.'

'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless you
guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery of
superstition?'

Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of
Emily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and
listen almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annette
urged her request.

'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is it
veiled?'

'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I have
seen it, and it is not veiled!'

The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled
Emily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade
Annette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoining
that part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several other
portraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb.

'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing.
Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in the
flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, full
of strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, that
Emily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved.
It was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather than
that of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune--not the placid
melancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.

'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' said
Emily.

'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it is
a long while ago.' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.

'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in a
better place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to place
the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomest
room in the castle. But he may have good reasons for what he does:
and some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well as his
gratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, laying her
finger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear what
she said.

''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor need
not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiled
picture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter, she would be
as little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find.'

'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you again,
Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you know
any thing of that picture.'

'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the servants
have seen it already!'

Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'

'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a
little more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'

'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.

'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about her,
'how could we get here?'

'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness. 'Well,
Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will go.'

Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the
hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found
weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance.
Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily's disposition
from her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of her
deserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumph
to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pity
her. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart,
that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunes
of her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, called
forth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuring
cloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in her
mind.

Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when
Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had not
her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by his
presence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.

'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am
indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could have
foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when I
married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot?
But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing what
is for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the best
judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married the
Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'

Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought
of triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her
hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might
characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in
the tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom
impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain, not
to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emily
learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.

'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every
respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut
me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do
whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find
that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would have
supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutely
no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best;
I thought he was a man of consequence, of great property, or I am sure
I would never have married him,--ungrateful, artful man!' She paused to
take breath.

'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so rich as
you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, since
this castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what are the
circumstances, that particularly affect you?'

'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with resentment:
'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his own fortune
by play, and that he has since lost what I brought him--and that now he
would compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the chief
of my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throw
it away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And,
and--is not all this sufficient?'

'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam, that I
knew nothing of all this.'

'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is also
absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither
this castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts,
honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'

'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.

'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has treated
me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish my
settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces, resolutely
defied him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But I bore all
meekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a word of complaint, till now;
no! That such a disposition as mine should be so imposed upon! That I,
whose only faults are too much kindness, too much generosity, should be
chained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'

Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If any thing could have
made Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech of
her aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with a
vehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the whole
into burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of real
consolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of superficial
comfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of her own
consequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or of
contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.

'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'
rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty,
or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own
daughter!'

'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me to
boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--a
quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'

'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said, Montoni
threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away my
settlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when you came into
the room before. Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make me
do this. Neither will I bear all this tamely. He shall hear his true
character from me; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of his
threats and cruel treatment.'

Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak. 'Dear madam,'
said she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor unnecessarily?
will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'

'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify: I will
not submit to such usage. You would have me give up my settlements, too,
I suppose!'

'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'

'What is it you do mean then?'

'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'--said Emily, with hesitation.
'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt.

'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make them?'

'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Is this a time to talk of
prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'

'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.' said Emily.

'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, 'of
prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the common
ties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to consider
prudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.'

'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam,' said Emily
modestly, 'that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches, however
just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violence
against you.'

'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--would
you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?
Would you have me give up my settlements?'

'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to advise
you on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for
saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliate
Signor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches.'

'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I
disdain to attempt it.'

Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinate
temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings,
she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. 'Your
situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam,' said Emily, 'as
you may imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse than
they are, for the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for his
possession of your settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, you
may look forward to it as a resource, at least, that will afford you
a competence, should the Signor's future conduct compel you to sue for
separation.'

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. 'Unfeeling, cruel girl!'
said she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to
complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that my
future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs are
as fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, to
endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because you
happen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heart
to a person, who could sympathize in my distress, but I find, that your
people of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may retire
to your chamber.'

Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled
emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she yielded
to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's situation
had occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with Valancourt, in
France, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the broken fortunes
of Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also, concerning his
character, appeared not less so, though the particular circumstances,
connected with his fame, to which the stranger had alluded, yet remained
to be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own observations and the
words of Count Morano had convinced her, that Montoni's situation was
not what it formerly appeared to be, the intelligence she had just
received from her aunt on this point, struck her with all the force of
astonishment, which was not weakened, when she considered the present
style of Montoni's living, the number of servants he maintained, and the
new expences he was incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle.
Her anxiety for her aunt and for herself increased with reflection.
Several assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she
had believed were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, now
returned to her mind with the strength of truth. She could not doubt,
that Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for a
pecuniary reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstances
justified the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion,
that he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself,
to a richer suitor.

Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni,
he had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, nor
willingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which might
have no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was now
inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to think,
that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible they
could apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neither
release her from her melancholy situation, or enable her to bear it with
greater fortitude, she tried to divert her anxiety, and took down from
her little library a volume of her favourite Ariosto; but his wild
imagery and rich invention could not long enchant her attention; his
spells did not reach her heart, and over her sleeping fancy they played,
without awakening it.

She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that
her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when they
did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of tenderness
and regret; and there were times, when music had increased such sorrow
to a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had not suddenly
ceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time, when she
mourned for her father, and heard the midnight strains, that floated by
her window near the convent in Languedoc, on the night that followed his
death.

She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber,
at which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. 'My
lady's, ma'amselle,' replied Annette: 'the Signor ordered her dinner to
be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. There
have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I think.'

Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little
table, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thus
easily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whom
Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at their
strange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they had been
attended by Montoni's order. 'Do they dine with the Signor, then?' said
Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north end
of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor told
old Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They have
been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmen
on the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I am
frightened whenever I see them.'

Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was
likely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a
cottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die. Emily's
countenance discovered her emotion.

'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will disguise
themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or I
am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enough
to hate him.'

'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but certainly
I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person
dying by violent means.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'

Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'To
be sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into a
lady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable
to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle
comes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn round, and draw
his sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!--To be sure it was
very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did
not know what he was about.'

'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and
her lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'we saw and heard enough of
this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'

'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be as
prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.'

'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be about
some folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you so
deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and not
to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to love
her; but--'

'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily,
gravely.

'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do, you
would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor and
her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always advised
him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased to call
them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient, whether you
would, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand times, and
I have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might have felt a
little for other people, and--'

'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her: 'but
my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or I
think--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.'

'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a
little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always
disturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady talking of
you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, often
and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them what
a deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and
distress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away with
Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that you
connived at his coming about the house at night, and--'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely impossible
my aunt could thus have represented me!'

'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of
that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to
discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been
in fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. But
my lady does not care what she says against any body, for that matter.'

'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering her
composure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt to
me. I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite dined.'

Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table.

'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when she
was alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--an
aunt--who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my
reputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of
female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, to
utter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and, I
may say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with
slanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely
have believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what a
contrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;
while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was
distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me
only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'

Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the ramparts,
the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she often wished,
that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods below, and
still more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime scenes of the
surrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer her to pass the
gates of the castle, she tried to be contented with the romantic views
she beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had been employed on the
fortifications, had left their work, and the ramparts were silent and
solitary. Their lonely appearance, together with the gloom of a lowering
sky, assisted the musings of her mind, and threw over it a kind of
melancholy tranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge. She turned
to observe a fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly streaming
from behind a heavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of the castle,
while the rest of the edifice was in deep shade, except, that, through
a lofty gothic arch, adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace,
the beams darted in full splendour, and shewed the three strangers
she had observed in the morning. Perceiving them, she started, and a
momentary fear came over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and saw
no other persons. While she hesitated, they approached. The gate at the
end of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was always
locked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, without
meeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thin
veil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty. They
looked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian,
of which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of their
countenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them, struck
her yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress had
formerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who walked
between the other two, that chiefly seized her attention, which
expressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful villany, that
gave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so legibly written on
his features, as to be seen by a single glance, for she passed the group
swiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested on them a moment. Having
reached the terrace, she stopped, and perceived the strangers standing
in the shadow of one of the turrets, gazing after her, and seemingly, by
their action, in earnest conversation. She immediately left the rampart,
and retired to her apartment.

In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the cedar
chamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, some other
circumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual height.
He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment and talk. The
gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat clouded by anxiety. He
kept a watchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost difficulty,
he had hitherto restrained from exasperating Montoni further against
Morano, by a mention of his late taunting words.

One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding
evening. Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that of
Emily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except Montoni, who
sat silent, and then interrupted the subject.

When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into
close conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible temper
of Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious superiority,
by that decisive look and manner, which always accompanied the vigour
of his thought, and to which most of his companions submitted, as to
a power, that they had no right to question, though of each
other's self-importance they were jealously scrupulous. Amidst this
conversation, one of them imprudently introduced again the name of
Morano; and Verezzi, now more heated by wine, disregarded the expressive
looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints of what had passed on the
preceding night. These, however, Montoni did not appear to understand,
for he continued silent in his chair, without discovering any emotion,
while, the choler of Verezzi increasing with the apparent insensibility
of Montoni, he at length told the suggestion of Morano, that this castle
did not lawfully belong to him, and that he would not willingly leave
another murder on his conscience.

'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' said
Montoni, with a countenance pale in anger. 'Why are the words of that
madman repeated to me?' Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni's
indignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by thanks to
himself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed his confusion.
'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a madman?' rejoined
Montoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man possessed by the spirit of
vengeance? But he has succeeded too well; you believe what he said.'

'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know.'--'How!'
interrupted Montoni, sternly: 'produce your proof.'

'We believe only what we know,' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know nothing
of what Morano asserts.' Montoni seemed to recover himself. 'I am hasty,
my friends,' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man shall question
it with impunity--you did not mean to question it. These foolish words
are not worth your remembrance, or my resentment. Verezzi, here is to
your first exploit.'

'Success to your first exploit,' re-echoed the whole company.

'Noble Signor,' replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped Montoni's
resentment, 'with my good will, you shall build your ramparts of gold.'

'Pass the goblet,' cried Montoni. 'We will drink to Signora St. Aubert,'
said Cavigni. 'By your leave we will first drink to the lady of the
castle.' said Bertolini.--Montoni was silent. 'To the lady of the
castle,' said his guests. He bowed his head.

'It much surprises me, Signor,' said Bertolini, 'that you have so long
neglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.'

'It suits our purpose,' replied Montoni, 'and IS a noble edifice. You
know not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.'

'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,' replied
Bertolini, smiling. 'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.'

Montoni looked gravely at him. 'If you will attend to what I say,' he
resumed, 'you shall hear the story.'

The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more than
curiosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard the
relation before.

'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni, 'since this castle came
into my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, my
predecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her
family. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixed
upon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however, that she
was herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on whom she
bestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took possession
of her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to her own life.
I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are some singular and
mysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall repeat them.'

'Repeat them!' said a voice.

Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke;
but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, at
length, recovered himself. 'We are overheard,' said he: 'we will finish
this subject another time. Pass the goblet.'

The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.

'Here is no person, but ourselves,' said Verezzi: 'pray, Signor,
proceed.'

'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.

'We did,' said Bertolini.

'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, looking round again. 'We see no
person besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed within
the room. Pray, Signor, go on.'

Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while
the cavaliers drew nearer to attend.

'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some months
shewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Her
mood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and,
at others, as I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms of
frantic madness. It was one night in the month of October, after she had
recovered from one of those fits of excess, and had sunk again into her
usual melancholy, that she retired alone to her chamber, and forbade all
interruption. It was the chamber at the end of the corridor, Signors,
where we had the affray, last night. From that hour, she was seen no
more.'

'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not her body found in the
chamber?'

'Were her remains never found?' cried the rest of the company all
together.

'Never!' replied Montoni.

'What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?' said
Bertolini.--'Aye, what reasons?' said Verezzi.--'How happened it, that
her remains were never found? Although she killed herself, she could
not bury herself.' Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, who began to
apologize. 'Your pardon, Signor,' said he: 'I did not consider, that the
lady was your relative, when I spoke of her so lightly.'

Montoni accepted the apology.

'But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him to
believe, that the lady committed suicide.'

'Those I will explain hereafter,' said Montoni: 'at present let me
relate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes no
further, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say.'

'Listen!' said a voice.

They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed.
'This is no illusion of the fancy,' said Cavigni, at length breaking the
profound silence.--'No,' said Bertolini; 'I heard it myself, now. Yet
here is no person in the room but ourselves!'

'This is very extraordinary,' said Montoni, suddenly rising. 'This is
not to be borne; here is some deception, some trick. I will know what it
means.'

All the company rose from their chairs in confusion.

'It is very odd!' said Bertolini. 'Here is really no stranger in the
room. If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the author of
it severely.'

'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni, affecting a laugh.

The servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, but
no person was found. The surprise and consternation of the company
increased. Montoni was discomposed. 'We will leave this room,' said he,
'and the subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn.' His guests
were equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject had roused
their curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to another
chamber, and finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail with
him. Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease, he was visibly and
greatly disordered.

'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,' cried Verezzi, jeeringly;
'you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!'

'I am not superstitious,' replied Montoni, regarding him with stern
displeasure, 'though I know how to despise the common-place sentences,
which are frequently uttered against superstition. I will enquire
further into this affair.' He then left the room; and his guests,
separating for the night, retired to their respective apartments.

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

completion: All right, Shmoopers. Here's the chapter where we get filled in on some of the fuzzier details from earlier in the book. Remember when Montoni made a hasty exit from Venice? Yeah, Morano showed up shortly after and was pretty upset about his missing bride. So Morano headed right out in pursuit of Em--all the way across the Appenines. That's what we call love, folks. Before Morano put his kidnap-Emily plan into action, good old Carlo the castle servant overheard a couple of servants gossiping. Carlo filled Montoni in, and voila! Montoni lay in wait for Morano to arrive. Back to the present: Montoni knows that someone betrayed him by letting Morano into the castle, but he doesn't know who. Could it be the sketchy-looking porter, Barnardine? But the guy denies it and seems convincing enough. Montoni lets it go. Oh yeah, and remember how Madame Montoni was fighting with her beloved hubby? Turns out he wants her to sign over all her property to him. That's not suspicious at all. Em tries to counsel her aunt to hand over the property. Hey, she's worried that Montoni won't hesitate to hurt her if he needs to. While Emily takes her nightly walk around the castle, let's return to Montoni for a sec. He's about to tell Bertolini and Verezzi about the former lady of the castle, Signora Laurentini. Short version of the Laurentini story: Montoni wanted to marry her for her wealth, but she rejected him for another person. He has reason to think she committed suicide afterward, but he won't repeat the circumstances of that event. "Repeat them!" a spooky voice echoes. Woo-woo! Montoni is kind of creeped out, but he keeps on telling the story. Signora Laurentini disappeared from Udolpho after showing symptoms of madness, and has never been seen since. Again, a voice echoes Montoni's words. No one is found in the chamber, but Montoni is still shaken up.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER VIII

 He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek.
     SHAKESPEARE

We now return to Valancourt, who, it may be remembered, remained
at Tholouse, some time after the departure of Emily, restless and
miserable. Each morrow that approached, he designed should carry
him from thence; yet to-morrow and to-morrow came, and still saw him
lingering in the scene of his former happiness. He could not immediately
tear himself from the spot, where he had been accustomed to converse
with Emily, or from the objects they had viewed together, which appeared
to him memorials of her affection, as well as a kind of surety for its
faithfulness; and, next to the pain of bidding her adieu, was that of
leaving the scenes which so powerfully awakened her image. Sometimes he
had bribed a servant, who had been left in the care of Madame Montoni's
chateau, to permit him to visit the gardens, and there he would wander,
for hours together, rapt in a melancholy, not unpleasing. The terrace,
and the pavilion at the end of it, where he had taken leave of Emily, on
the eve of her departure from Tholouse, were his most favourite haunts.
There, as he walked, or leaned from the window of the building, he would
endeavour to recollect all she had said, on that night; to catch the
tones of her voice, as they faintly vibrated on his memory, and to
remember the exact expression of her countenance, which sometimes came
suddenly to his fancy, like a vision; that beautiful countenance, which
awakened, as by instantaneous magic, all the tenderness of his heart,
and seemed to tell with irresistible eloquence--that he had lost her
forever! At these moments, his hurried steps would have discovered to a
spectator the despair of his heart. The character of Montoni, such as
he had received from hints, and such as his fears represented it, would
rise to his view, together with all the dangers it seemed to threaten
to Emily and to his love. He blamed himself, that he had not urged these
more forcibly to her, while it might have been in his power to detain
her, and that he had suffered an absurd and criminal delicacy, as he
termed it, to conquer so soon the reasonable arguments he had opposed to
this journey. Any evil, that might have attended their marriage, seemed
so inferior to those, which now threatened their love, or even to the
sufferings, that absence occasioned, that he wondered how he could have
ceased to urge his suit, till he had convinced her of its propriety; and
he would certainly now have followed her to Italy, if he could have been
spared from his regiment for so long a journey. His regiment, indeed,
soon reminded him, that he had other duties to attend, than those of
love.

A short time after his arrival at his brother's house, he was summoned
to join his brother officers, and he accompanied a battalion to Paris;
where a scene of novelty and gaiety opened upon him, such as, till then,
he had only a faint idea of. But gaiety disgusted, and company fatigued,
his sick mind; and he became an object of unceasing raillery to his
companions, from whom, whenever he could steal an opportunity, he
escaped, to think of Emily. The scenes around him, however, and the
company with whom he was obliged to mingle, engaged his attention,
though they failed to amuse his fancy, and thus gradually weakened the
habit of yielding to lamentation, till it appeared less a duty to his
love to indulge it. Among his brother-officers were many, who added
to the ordinary character of a French soldier's gaiety some of those
fascinating qualities, which too frequently throw a veil over folly, and
sometimes even soften the features of vice into smiles. To these men
the reserved and thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacit
censure on their own, for which they rallied him when present, and
plotted against him when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducing
him to their own level, and, considering it to be a spirited frolic,
determined to accomplish it.

Valancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme and
intrigue, against which he could not be on his guard. He had not been
accustomed to receive ridicule, and he could ill endure its sting; he
resented it, and this only drew upon him a louder laugh. To escape from
such scenes, he fled into solitude, and there the image of Emily met
him, and revived the pangs of love and despair. He then sought to renew
those tasteful studies, which had been the delight of his early years;
but his mind had lost the tranquillity, which is necessary for their
enjoyment. To forget himself and the grief and anxiety, which the idea
of her recalled, he would quit his solitude, and again mingle in the
crowd--glad of a temporary relief, and rejoicing to snatch amusement for
the moment.

Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow, and
habit strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes around him
seemed to awaken into a new character, and Valancourt, to have fallen
among them from the clouds.

His figure and address made him a welcome visitor, wherever he had been
introduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable circles
of Paris. Among these, was the assembly of the Countess Lacleur, a woman
of eminent beauty and captivating manners. She had passed the spring of
youth, but her wit prolonged the triumph of its reign, and they mutually
assisted the fame of each other; for those, who were charmed by her
loveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her talents; and others, who
admired her playful imagination, declared, that her personal graces were
unrivalled. But her imagination was merely playful, and her wit, if such
it could be called, was brilliant, rather than just; it dazzled, and its
fallacy escaped the detection of the moment; for the accents, in which
she pronounced it, and the smile, that accompanied them, were a spell
upon the judgment of the auditors. Her petits soupers were the most
tasteful of any in Paris, and were frequented by many of the second
class of literati. She was fond of music, was herself a scientific
performer, and had frequently concerts at her house. Valancourt, who
passionately loved music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts,
admired her execution, but remembered with a sigh the eloquent
simplicity of Emily's songs and the natural expression of her manner,
which waited not to be approved by the judgment, but found their way at
once to the heart.

Madame La Comtesse had often deep play at her house, which she affected
to restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known among her
friends, that the splendour of her establishment was chiefly supplied
from the profits of her tables. But her petits soupers were the most
charming imaginable! Here were all the delicacies of the four quarters
of the world, all the wit and the lighter efforts of genius, all the
graces of conversation--the smiles of beauty, and the charm of music;
and Valancourt passed his pleasantest, as well as most dangerous hours
in these parties.

His brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contented
himself with giving him letters of introduction to such of his
relations, residing at Paris, as the latter was not already known to.
All these were persons of some distinction; and, as neither the person,
mind, or manners of Valancourt the younger threatened to disgrace their
alliance, they received him with as much kindness as their nature,
hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of; but their
attentions did not extend to acts of real friendship; for they were too
much occupied by their own pursuits, to feel any interest in his; and
thus he was set down in the midst of Paris, in the pride of youth, with
an open, unsuspicious temper and ardent affections, without one friend,
to warn him of the dangers, to which he was exposed. Emily, who, had
she been present, would have saved him from these evils by awakening
his heart, and engaging him in worthy pursuits, now only increased
his danger;--it was to lose the grief, which the remembrance of her
occasioned, that he first sought amusement; and for this end he pursued
it, till habit made it an object of abstract interest.

There was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whose
assemblies he passed much of his time. She was handsome, still more
artful, gay and fond of intrigue. The society, which she drew round her,
was less elegant and more vicious, than that of the Countess Lacleur:
but, as she had address enough to throw a veil, though but a slight
one, over the worst part of her character, she was still visited by many
persons of what is called distinction. Valancourt was introduced to her
parties by two of his brother officers, whose late ridicule he had now
forgiven so far, that he could sometimes join in the laugh, which a
mention of his former manners would renew.

The gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence of
the palaces, entertainments, and equipages, that surrounded him--all
conspired to dazzle his imagination, and re-animate his spirits, and
the example and maxims of his military associates to delude his mind.
Emily's image, indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer the
friend, the monitor, that saved him from himself, and to which he
retired to weep the sweet, yet melancholy, tears of tenderness. When
he had recourse to it, it assumed a countenance of mild reproach, that
wrung his soul, and called forth tears of unmixed misery; his only
escape from which was to forget the object of it, and he endeavoured,
therefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could.

Thus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time, when Emily
was suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of Count Morano,
and the unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we leave him.

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

completion: It's been a while since we checked in on Valancourt, so let's see how our guy is doing. Last time we saw him, he was all broken-hearted in Tholouse over Em. Well, he's found an interesting way to cope with heartbreak--namely, by partying it up in Paris with a certain Countess Lacleur. Ahem, Valancourt is spending a little more time at the Countess's parties than fulfilling his duties as a soldier. There's also a Marchioness Champfort who seems to be spending plenty of time with Emily's beau. Man, Valancourt is in some trouble. Let's hope he can make it through the temptations and hold out for Em.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER IX

 The image of a wicked, heinous fault
 Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
 Does shew the mood of a much-troubled breast.
     KING JOHN

Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomy
Apennine, where Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt.
Looking to him as to her only hope, she recollected, with jealous
exactness, every assurance and every proof she had witnessed of his
affection; read again and again the letters she had received from him;
weighed, with intense anxiety, the force of every word, that spoke of
his attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted in his truth.

Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiry concerning the strange
circumstance of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was, at
length, obliged to account for it by the reasonable supposition, that
it was a mischievous trick played off by one of his domestics. His
disagreements with Madame Montoni, on the subject of her settlements,
were now more frequent than ever; he even confined her entirely to her
own apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her with much greater
severity, should she persevere in a refusal.

Reason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the choice
of a conduct to be adopted. It would have pointed out the danger of
irritating by further opposition a man, such as Montoni had proved
himself to be, and to whose power she had so entirely committed herself;
and it would also have told her, of what extreme importance to her
future comfort it was, to reserve for herself those possessions, which
would enable her to live independently of Montoni, should she ever
escape from his immediate controul. But she was directed by a more
decisive guide than reason--the spirit of revenge, which urged her to
oppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to obstinacy.

Wholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reduced
to solicit the society she had lately rejected; for Emily was the only
person, except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse.

Generously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore, tried to persuade,
when she could not convince, and sought by every gentle means to induce
her to forbear that asperity of reply, which so greatly irritated
Montoni. The pride of her aunt did sometimes soften to the soothing
voice of Emily, and there even were moments, when she regarded her
affectionate attentions with goodwill.

The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently
compelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any
circumstances, that had occurred since her departure from Tholouse. The
gentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes of her
early happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of a higher
world; while the characters and circumstances, now passing beneath her
eye, excited both terror and surprise. She could scarcely have
imagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as those which Montoni
exhibited, could have been concentrated in one individual; yet what
more surprised her, was, that, on great occasions, he could bend these
passions, wild as they were, to the cause of his interest, and generally
could disguise in his countenance their operation on his mind; but she
had seen him too often, when he had thought it unnecessary to conceal
his nature, to be deceived on such occasions.

Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered imagination,
or like one of those frightful fictions, in which the wild genius of
the poets sometimes delighted. Reflection brought only regret, and
anticipation terror. How often did she wish to 'steal the lark's wing,
and mount the swiftest gale,' that Languedoc and repose might once more
be hers!

Of Count Morano's health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heard
only vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he would
never leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be shocked to
think, that she, however innocently, might be the means of his death;
and Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion, interpreted it in
her own way.

But a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette's
attention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity so
natural to her. Coming one day to Emily's apartment, with a countenance
full of importance, 'What can all this mean, ma'amselle?' said she.
'Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should never catch me
going on my travels any more! I must think it a fine thing, truly, to
come abroad, and see foreign parts! I little thought I was coming to be
catched up in a old castle, among such dreary mountains, with the chance
of being murdered, or, what is as good, having my throat cut!'

'What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?' said Emily, in astonishment.

'Aye, ma'amselle, you may look surprised; but you won't believe it,
perhaps, till they have murdered you, too. You would not believe about
the ghost I told you of, though I shewed you the very place, where it
used to appear!--You will believe nothing, ma'amselle.'

'Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven's sake, explain
your meaning. You spoke of murder!'

'Aye, ma'amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but what
signifies explaining?--you will not believe.'

Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard.

'O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can
prove. Poor soul! they will murder him, too! I little thought, when
he sung those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!'--Emily looked
impatient and displeased. 'Well, ma'amselle, as I was saying, these
preparations about the castle, and these strange-looking people, that
are calling here every day, and the Signor's cruel usage of my lady, and
his odd goings-on--all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode no good. And
he bid me hold my tongue. So, says I, the Signor's strangely altered,
Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what he was in France; there, all so
gay! Nobody so gallant to my lady, then; and he could smile, too, upon
a poor servant, sometimes, and jeer her, too, good-naturedly enough.
I remember once, when he said to me, as I was going out of my lady's
dressing-room--Annette, says he--'

'Never mind what the Signor said,' interrupted Emily; 'but tell me, at
once, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you.'

'Aye, ma'amselle,' rejoined Annette, 'that is just what Ludovico said:
says he, Never mind what the Signor says to you. So I told him what I
thought about the Signor. He is so strangely altered, said I: for now he
is so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp with my lady; and, if he
meets one, he'll scarcely look at one, unless it be to frown. So much
the better, says Ludovico, so much the better. And to tell you the
truth, ma'amselle, I thought this was a very ill-natured speech of
Ludovico: but I went on. And then, says I, he is always knitting his
brows; and if one speaks to him, he does not hear; and then he sits up
counselling so, of a night, with the other Signors--there they are, till
long past midnight, discoursing together! Aye, but says Ludovico,
you don't know what they are counselling about. No, said I, but I
can guess--it is about my young lady. Upon that, Ludovico burst out
a-laughing, quite loud; so he put me in a huff, for I did not like that
either I or you, ma'amselle, should be laughed at; and I turned away
quick, but he stopped me. "Don't be affronted, Annette," said he, "but I
cannot help laughing;" and with that he laughed again. "What!" says he,
"do you think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to counsel
about thy young lady! No, no, there is something more in the wind than
that. And these repairs about the castle, and these preparations about
the ramparts--they are not making about young ladies." Why, surely, said
I, the Signor, my master, is not going to make war? "Make war!" said
Ludovico, "what, upon the mountains and the woods? for here is no living
soul to make war upon that I see."

'What are these preparations for, then? said I; why surely nobody
is coming to take away my master's castle! "Then there are so many
ill-looking fellows coming to the castle every day," says Ludovico,
without answering my question, "and the Signor sees them all, and talks
with them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood! By holy St.
Marco! some of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever set my
eyes upon."

'I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away my
master's castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but he did
not know for certain. "Then yesterday," said he, but you must not tell
this, ma'amselle, "yesterday, a party of these men came, and left all
their horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they are to
stay, for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with the
best provender in the manger; but the men are, most of them, in the
neighbouring cottages."

'So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard any
thing so strange in my life. But what can these ill-looking men be come
about, if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knows this, or why
should he be so civil to them? And why should he fortify the castle, and
counsel so much with the other Signors, and be so thoughtful?'

'Is this all you have to tell, Annette?' said Emily. 'Have you heard
nothing else, that alarms you?'

'Nothing else, ma'amselle!' said Annette; 'why, is not this enough?'
'Quite enough for my patience, Annette, but not quite enough to convince
me we are all to be murdered, though I acknowledge here is sufficient
food for curiosity.' She forbore to speak her apprehensions, because
she would not encourage Annette's wild terrors; but the present
circumstances of the castle both surprised, and alarmed her. Annette,
having told her tale, left the chamber, on the wing for new wonders.

In the evening, Emily had passed some melancholy hours with Madame
Montoni, and was retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by a strange and
loud knocking at her chamber door, and then a heavy weight fell against
it, that almost burst it open. She called to know who was there, and
receiving no answer, repeated the call; but a chilling silence followed.
It occurred to her--for, at this moment, she could not reason on the
probability of circumstances--that some one of the strangers, lately
arrived at the castle, had discovered her apartment, and was come with
such intent, as their looks rendered too possible--to rob, perhaps to
murder, her. The moment she admitted this possibility, terror supplied
the place of conviction, and a kind of instinctive remembrance of her
remote situation from the family heightened it to a degree, that almost
overcame her senses. She looked at the door, which led to the staircase,
expecting to see it open, and listening, in fearful silence, for a
return of the noise, till she began to think it had proceeded from this
door, and a wish of escaping through the opposite one rushed upon her
mind. She went to the gallery door, and then, fearing to open it, lest
some person might be silently lurking for her without, she stopped,
but with her eyes fixed in expectation upon the opposite door of the
stair-case. As thus she stood, she heard a faint breathing near her, and
became convinced, that some person was on the other side of the door,
which was already locked. She sought for other fastening, but there was
none.

While she yet listened, the breathing was distinctly heard, and her
terror was not soothed, when, looking round her wide and lonely chamber,
she again considered her remote situation. As she stood hesitating
whether to call for assistance, the continuance of the stillness
surprised her; and her spirits would have revived, had she not continued
to hear the faint breathing, that convinced her, the person, whoever it
was, had not quitted the door.

At length, worn out with anxiety, she determined to call loudly for
assistance from her casement, and was advancing to it, when, whether the
terror of her mind gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did come,
she thought footsteps were ascending the private stair-case; and,
expecting to see its door unclose, she forgot all other cause of alarm,
and retreated towards the corridor. Here she endeavoured to make her
escape, but, on opening the door, was very near falling over a person,
who lay on the floor without. She screamed, and would have passed, but
her trembling frame refused to support her; and the moment, in which she
leaned against the wall of the gallery, allowed her leisure to observe
the figure before her, and to recognise the features of Annette. Fear
instantly yielded to surprise. She spoke in vain to the poor girl, who
remained senseless on the floor, and then, losing all consciousness of
her own weakness, hurried to her assistance.

When Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, but
was still unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes followed
some person in the room. Emily tried to sooth her disturbed spirits, and
forbore, at present, to ask her any questions; but the faculty of speech
was never long with-held from Annette, and she explained, in broken
sentences, and in her tedious way, the occasion of her disorder. She
affirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction, that almost staggered
the incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an apparition, as she was
passing to her bedroom, through the corridor.

'I had heard strange stories of that chamber before,' said Annette:
'but as it was so near yours, ma'amselle, I would not tell them to you,
because they would frighten you. The servants had told me, often and
often, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it was shut up:
nay, for that matter, why the whole string of these rooms, here, are
shut up. I quaked whenever I went by, and I must say, I did sometimes
think I heard odd noises within it. But, as I said, as I was passing
along the corridor, and not thinking a word about the matter, or even
of the strange voice that the Signors heard the other night, all of a
sudden comes a great light, and, looking behind me, there was a tall
figure, (I saw it as plainly, ma'amselle, as I see you at this moment),
a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I cannot describe how!) into the room,
that is always shut up, and nobody has the key of it but the Signor, and
the door shut directly.'

'Then it doubtless was the Signor,' said Emily.

'O no, ma'amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busy
a-quarrelling in my lady's dressing-room!'

'You bring me strange tales, Annette,' said Emily: 'it was but this
morning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension of
murder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost! These
wonderful stories come too quickly.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not been
frightened, I should not have fainted dead away, so. I ran as fast as I
could, to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could not call
out; then I thought something must be strangely the matter with me, and
directly I dropt down.'

'Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?' said Emily. 'O! no,
ma'amselle, it was one nearer to this. What shall I do, to get to my
room? I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole world!'
Emily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who, therefore,
did not like the thought of passing the night alone, told her she might
sleep where she was. 'O, no, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'I would not
sleep in the room, now, for a thousand sequins!'

Wearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared, her
fears, and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt succeeded, and
the girl persisted in believing and affirming, that what she had seen
was nothing human. It was not till some time after Emily had recovered
her composure, that she recollected the steps she had heard on the
stair-case--a remembrance, however, which made her insist that Annette
should pass the night with her, and, with much difficulty, she, at
length, prevailed, assisted by that part of the girl's fear, which
concerned the corridor.

Early on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to the
ramparts, she heard a noisy bustle in the court-yard, and the clatter of
horses' hoofs. Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and, instead
of going to the ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from whence
she saw, in the court below, a large party of horsemen, dressed in a
singular, but uniform, habit, and completely, though variously, armed.
They wore a kind of short jacket, composed of black and scarlet, and
several of them had a cloak, of plain black, which, covering the person
entirely, hung down to the stirrups. As one of these cloaks glanced
aside, she saw, beneath, daggers, apparently of different sizes, tucked
into the horseman's belt. She further observed, that these were carried,
in the same manner, by many of the horsemen without cloaks, most of whom
bore also pikes, or javelins. On their heads, were the small Italian
caps, some of which were distinguished by black feathers. Whether these
caps gave a fierce air to the countenance, or that the countenances
they surmounted had naturally such an appearance, Emily thought she had
never, till then, seen an assemblage of faces so savage and terrific.
While she gazed, she almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; and
a vague thought glanced athwart her fancy--that Montoni was the captain
of the group before her, and that this castle was to be the place of
rendezvous. The strange and horrible supposition was but momentary,
though her reason could supply none more probable, and though she
discovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly noticed with
so much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black plume.

While she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came forth
from the hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore hats, with
a mixed plume of black and scarlet, and that their arms differed from
those of the rest of the party. As they mounted their horses, Emily was
struck with the exulting joy, expressed on the visage of Verezzi, while
Cavigni was gay, yet with a shade of thought on his countenance; and, as
he managed his horse with dexterity, his graceful and commanding figure,
which exhibited the majesty of a hero, had never appeared to more
advantage. Emily, as she observed him, thought he somewhat resembled
Valancourt, in the spirit and dignity of his person; but she looked in
vain for the noble, benevolent countenance--the soul's intelligence,
which overspread the features of the latter.

As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would accompany
the party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred. Having
carefully observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the cavaliers,
and bidden them farewel, the band wheeled round the court, and, led by
Verezzi, issued forth under the portcullis; Montoni following to the
portal, and gazing after them for some time. Emily then retired from
the casement, and, now certain of being unmolested, went to walk on the
ramparts, from whence she soon after saw the party winding among the
mountains to the west, appearing and disappearing between the woods,
till distance confused their figures, consolidated their numbers, and
only a dingy mass appeared moving along the heights.

Emily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that the
repairs of the fortifications seemed to be completed. While she
sauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distant footsteps, and, raising her
eyes, saw several men lurking under the castle walls, who were evidently
not workmen, but looked as if they would have accorded well with the
party, which was gone. Wondering where Annette had hid herself so
long, who might have explained some of the late circumstances, and then
considering that Madame Montoni was probably risen, she went to her
dressing-room, where she mentioned what had occurred; but Madame Montoni
either would not, or could not, give any explanation of the event. The
Signor's reserve to his wife, on this subject, was probably nothing
more than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave an air of mystery to the whole
affair, that seemed to hint, there was danger, if not villany, in his
schemes.

Annette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her lady's
eager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she replied:

'Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he knows
well enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master. Some say the
Signor is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call it: but where is
the enemy? Then others say, he is going to take away some body's castle:
but I am sure he has room enough in his own, without taking other
people's; and I am sure I should like it a great deal better, if there
were more people to fill it.'

'Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,' replied Madame Montoni.

'No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having. I mean
such gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always telling
droll stories, to make one laugh. It was but yesterday, he told me such
a HUMOURSOME tale! I can't help laughing at it now.--Says he--'

'Well, we can dispense with the story,' said her lady. 'Ah!' continued
Annette, 'he sees a great way further than other people! Now he sees
into all the Signor's meaning, without knowing a word about the matter!'

'How is that?' said Madame Montoni.

'Why he says--but he made me promise not to tell, and I would not
disoblige him for the world.'

'What is it he made you promise not to tell?' said her lady, sternly. 'I
insist upon knowing immediately--what is it he made you promise?'

'O madam,' cried Annette, 'I would not tell for the universe!' 'I insist
upon your telling this instant,' said Madame Montoni. 'O dear madam!
I would not tell for a hundred sequins! You would not have me forswear
myself madam!' exclaimed Annette.

'I will not wait another moment,' said Madame Montoni. Annette was
silent.

'The Signor shall be informed of this directly,' rejoined her mistress:
'he will make you discover all.'

'It is Ludovico, who has discovered,' said Annette: 'but for mercy's
sake, madam, don't tell the Signor, and you shall know all directly.'
Madame Montoni said, that she would not.

'Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master,
is--is--that is, he only thinks so, and any body, you know, madam, is
free to think--that the Signor, my master, is--is--'

'Is what?' said her lady, impatiently.

'That the Signor, my master, is going to be--a great robber--that is--he
is going to rob on his own account;--to be, (but I am sure I don't
understand what he means) to be a--captain of--robbers.'

'Art thou in thy senses, Annette?' said Madame Montoni; 'or is this a
trick to deceive me? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico DID say to
thee;--no equivocation;--this instant.'

'Nay, madam,' cried Annette, 'if this is all I am to get for having
told the secret'--Her mistress thus continued to insist, and Annette to
protest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter leave the
room, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her story. Emily also
was retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay; and Montoni had so
often made her a witness of their contention, that he no longer had
scruples on that account.

'I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:' said
his wife--'what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of, gone
out about?' Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and Emily
whispered something to her. 'It does not signify,' said her aunt: 'I
will know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been fortified
for.'

'Come, come,' said Montoni, 'other business brought me here. I must
be trifled with no longer. I have immediate occasion for what I
demand--those estates must be given up, without further contention; or I
may find a way--'

'They never shall be given up,' interrupted Madame Montoni: 'they never
shall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;--but what are these?
I will know. Do you expect the castle to be attacked? Do you expect
enemies? Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a siege?'

'Sign the writings,' said Montoni, 'and you shall know more.'

'What enemy can be coming?' continued his wife. 'Have you entered into
the service of the state? Am I to be blocked up here to die?'

'That may possibly happen,' said Montoni, 'unless you yield to my
demand: for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till then.'
Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as suddenly
checked, considering, that her husband's assertions might be only
artifices, employed to extort her consent. She hinted this suspicion,
and, in the next moment, told him also, that his designs were not so
honourable as to serve the state, and that she believed he had only
commenced a captain of banditti, to join the enemies of Venice, in
plundering and laying waste the surrounding country.

Montoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern countenance;
while Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought she had said too
much. 'You shall be removed, this night,' said he, 'to the east turret:
there, perhaps, you may understand the danger of offending a man, who
has an unlimited power over you.'

Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated for
her aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now ready to
pour forth execrations, and now to join the intercessions of Emily.
Montoni, however, soon interrupted these entreaties with an horrible
oath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving his cloak, in her hand, she
fell to the floor, with a force, that occasioned her a severe blow on
the forehead. But he quitted the room, without attempting to raise her,
whose attention was called from herself, by a deep groan from Madame
Montoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in her chair, and had not
fainted. Emily, hastening to her assistance, saw her eyes rolling, and
her features convulsed.

Having spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she brought
water, and supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but the
increasing convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance. On
her way through the hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni, whom
she told what had happened, and conjured to return and comfort her aunt;
but he turned silently away, with a look of indifference, and went out
upon the ramparts. At length she found old Carlo and Annette, and they
hastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni had fallen on the
floor, and was lying in strong convulsions. Having lifted her into the
adjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the force of her disorder still
made all their strength necessary to hold her, while Annette trembled
and sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently and piteously on, as his
feeble hands grasped those of his mistress, till, turning his eyes upon
Emily, he exclaimed, 'Good God! Signora, what is the matter?'

Emily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her: and
Annette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily's face was stained
with blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead: but her
attention had been so entirely occupied by the scene before her, that
she had felt no pain from the wound. She now held an handkerchief to
her face, and, notwithstanding her faintness, continued to watch Madame
Montoni, the violence of whose convulsions was abating, till at length
they ceased, and left her in a kind of stupor.

'My aunt must remain quiet,' said Emily. 'Go, good Carlo; if we should
want your assistance, I will send for you. In the mean time, if you have
an opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your master.'

'Alas!' said Carlo, 'I have seen too much! I have little influence with
the Signor. But do, dear young lady, take some care of yourself; that is
an ugly wound, and you look sadly.'

'Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,' said Emily, smiling
kindly: 'the wound is trifling, it came by a fall.'

Carlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette,
continued to watch by her aunt. 'Did my lady tell the Signor what
Ludovico said, ma'amselle?' asked Annette in a whisper; but Emily
quieted her fears on the subject.

'I thought what this quarrelling would come to,' continued Annette: 'I
suppose the Signor has been beating my lady.'

'No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extra-ordinary has
happened.'

'Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma'amselle, that there
is nothing in them. Here is another legion of those ill-looking fellows,
come to the castle, this morning.'

'Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by and
bye.'

They continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a low
sigh, when Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but the
former gazed with unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew her
niece. Her first words then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily replied
by an entreaty, that she would compose her spirits, and consent to be
kept quiet, adding, that, if she wished any message to be conveyed to
him, she would herself deliver it. 'No,' said her aunt faintly, 'no--I
have nothing new to tell him. Does he persist in saying I shall be
removed from my chamber?'

Emily replied, that he had not spoken, on the subject, since Madame
Montoni heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to some
other topic; but her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said, and
lost in secret thoughts. Emily, having brought her some refreshment, now
left her to the care of Annette, and went in search of Montoni, whom she
found on a remote part of the rampart, conversing among a group of
the men described by Annette. They stood round him with fierce, yet
subjugated, looks, while he, speaking earnestly, and pointing to the
walls, did not perceive Emily, who remained at some distance, waiting
till he should be at leisure, and observing involuntarily the appearance
of one man, more savage than his fellows, who stood resting on his pike,
and looking, over the shoulders of a comrade, at Montoni, to whom he
listened with uncommon earnestness. This man was apparently of low
condition; yet his looks appeared not to acknowledge the superiority of
Montoni, as did those of his companions; and sometimes they even assumed
an air of authority, which the decisive manner of the Signor could not
repress. Some few words of Montoni then passed in the wind; and, as the
men were separating, she heard him say, 'This evening, then, begin the
watch at sun-set.'

'At sun-set, Signor,' replied one or two of them, and walked away; while
Emily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding her: but,
though she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She endeavoured to
intercede once more for her aunt, represented to him her sufferings,
and urged the danger of exposing her to a cold apartment in her present
state. 'She suffers by her own folly,' said Montoni, 'and is not to be
pitied;--she knows how she may avoid these sufferings in future--if she
is removed to the turret, it will be her own fault. Let her be obedient,
and sign the writings you heard of, and I will think no more of it.'

When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked her
for interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed her
with this concession--That he would not remove Madame Montoni, on the
ensuing night, but allow her till the next to consider, whether she
would resign her settlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret of
the castle, 'where she shall find,' he added, 'a punishment she may not
expect.'

Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of the
alternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply,
but appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme
languor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting
topics: and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame Montoni
became peevish, her resolution, on the contended point, seemed somewhat
to relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of safety, that she
should submit to Montoni's demand. 'You know not what you advise,' said
her aunt. 'Do you understand, that these estates will descend to you at
my death, if I persist in a refusal?'

'I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,' replied Emily, 'but the
knowledge of it cannot with-hold me from advising you to adopt the
conduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety requires,
and I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration comparatively so
trifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning them.'

'Are you sincere, niece?' 'Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?' Her
aunt appeared to be affected. 'You are not unworthy of these estates,
niece,' said she: 'I would wish to keep them for your sake--you shew a
virtue I did not expect.'

'How have I deserved this reproof, madam?' said Emily sorrowfully.

'Reproof!' replied Madame Montoni: 'I meant to praise your virtue.'

'Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,' rejoined Emily, 'for here is no
temptation to be overcome.'

'Yet Monsieur Valancourt'--said her aunt. 'O, madam!' interrupted Emily,
anticipating what she would have said, 'do not let me glance on that
subject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so shockingly
self-interested.' She immediately changed the topic, and continued with
Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for the night.

At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of
it, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed along
the wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt forlorn
and apprehensive of--she scarcely knew what; but when, entering the
corridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding night, a dread
seized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that, which had befallen
Annette, should occur to her, and which, whether real, or ideal, would,
she felt, have an almost equal effect upon her weakened spirits. The
chamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did not exactly know, but
understood it to be one of those she must pass in the way to her own;
and, sending a fearful look forward into the gloom, she stepped lightly
and cautiously along, till, coming to a door, from whence issued a low
sound, she hesitated and paused; and, during the delay of that moment,
her fears so much increased, that she had no power to move from the
spot. Believing, that she heard a human voice within, she was somewhat
revived; but, in the next moment, the door was opened, and a person,
whom she conceived to be Montoni, appeared, who instantly started back,
and closed it, though not before she had seen, by the light that burned
in the chamber, another person, sitting in a melancholy attitude by the
fire. Her terror vanished, but her astonishment only began, which was
now roused by the mysterious secrecy of Montoni's manner, and by
the discovery of a person, whom he thus visited at midnight, in an
apartment, which had long been shut up, and of which such extraordinary
reports were circulated.

While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch
Montoni's motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice
them, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed as
before. She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the next
but one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an obscure
corner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this half-seen
person, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni.

Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes
fixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared,
whom she now knew to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, without
perceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left the
corridor. Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside, and
she withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed.

It was now twelve o'clock. As she closed her casement, she heard
footsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom,
several persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She then
heard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when,
recollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni, and the hour
of the night, she understood, that these men were, for the first time,
relieving guard in the castle. Having listened till all was again still,
she retired to sleep.

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

completion: Back to Em at Udolpho, who is still totally hung up on Valancourt. At least Em is getting her fill of gossip from Annette. Annette tells her that Montoni may be preparing the castle for battle. All sorts of soldiers are showing up out of the blue. Em's in her chamber one night when someone starts violently knocking on the door. Being a smart girl, she doesn't hurry to open it. But after thinking she hears footsteps in the secret passage outside the other door, she opens it out of fright. Annette is passed out on the ground. Once Annette comes to, she tells Em about seeing a tall figure gliding into a locked room. This is beginning to sound like an episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? The next day, Em gets a little more info about the preparations for battle from Annette. The rumor mill has it that Montoni is either going to take someone's castle or frighten away an enemy, but Annette doesn't know which one is true. Meanwhile, Madame Montoni still refuses to sign away her estates to her husband. Montoni orders her locked up in the east turret of the castle until she consents. Not cool, guy. Madame Montoni instantly falls into convulsions, leaving her in a kind of stupor. Being a good niece, Em tries to intervene on behalf of her aunt. But Montoni is one mean, unforgiving guy. He says Madame Montoni can have one more night before she gets shut away in the east turret, but no more. Madame Montoni fills her niece in on a little secret: if she dies, the estates that Montoni so desperately wants will pass directly to Em.