prompt:
Chapter: VOLUME 4 CHAPTER I

  Is all the council that we two have shared,
     the hours that we have spent,
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time
 For parting us--Oh! and is all forgot?

 And will you rend our ancient love asunder?
     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De
Villefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below,
and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits,
she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of the
library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such
energy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned into
the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to command
her agitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seated
with the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare
to look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair,
immediately withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression
of heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while
Valancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,
continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would have
perceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'I have solicited to see you
this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of
suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the
hints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. I
perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and
who have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I perceive,
too, that time and absence have weakened the affection you once felt for
me, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me.'

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before,
continued silent.

'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his
seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting is this,
after our long--long separation!' Again he sat down, and, after the
struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, 'This is
too much--I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?'

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and
took Emily's, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer
be restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she was
weeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to
cross his mind, for he exclaimed, 'O! you do pity me, then, you do love
me! Yes, you are still my own Emily--let me believe those tears, that
tell me so!'

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying
them, 'Yes,' said she, 'I do pity you--I weep for you--but, ought I to
think of you with affection? You may remember, that yester-evening I
said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe,
that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would give
it. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; but
prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence I
give it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the same
estimable Valancourt--whom I once loved.'

'Once loved!' cried he,--'the same--the same!' He paused in
extreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, and
dejected,--'No--I am not the same!--I am lost--I am no longer worthy of
you!'

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest
confession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcome
the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, which
was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger of
trusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and was
anxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet, when
she considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her fortitude
sunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness and of
despondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he
had neither the power, or the will to express, sat insensible almost
of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast
agitated by convulsive sighs.

'Spare me the necessity,' said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, 'spare
me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct,
which oblige me to break our connection forever.--We must part, I now
see you for the last time.'

'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, 'You
cannot mean what you say!--you cannot mean to throw me from you
forever!'

'We must part,' repeated Emily, with emphasis,--'and that forever! Your
own conduct has made this necessary.'

'This is the Count's determination,' said he haughtily, 'not yours,
and I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.' He now
rose, and walked about the room in great emotion.

'Let me save you from this error,' said Emily, not less agitated--'it is
my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, you
will perceive, that my future peace requires it.'

'Your future peace requires, that we should part--part forever!' said
Valancourt, 'How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!'

'And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say
so!' rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her
tears flowed again.--'That you--you, Valancourt, would ever fall from my
esteem!'

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no
longer deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost
it, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his
late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome
by a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burst
into tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not
be witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to
her recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort
had informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in
repentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhaps
have trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his
misconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a
calm voice, ''Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my own esteem! but
could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before
ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs,
I will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you not
otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation--and could you bear, by
estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery--to myself!'--Emily wept
aloud.--'No, Emily--no--you would not do this, if you still loved me.
You would find your own happiness in saving mine.'

'There are too many probabilities against that hope,' said Emily, 'to
justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not
also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?'

'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt--'is it possible you can doubt
my love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see,
that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, than
that of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily--I am ruined--irreparably
ruined--I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!'
Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled into
an expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled to
admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for
fear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in
which they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to
contend against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to conclude
the interview. 'I will not prolong these moments,' said she, 'by a
conversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!'

'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will not
leave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggested
any possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despair
and the endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified by the sternness
of his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have yourself
acknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if you
wish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the
acknowledgment.'--'Never--never,' cried he--'I was distracted when I
made it. O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as to
my faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The
Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.'

'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'the Count is not your enemy;
on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induce
you to consider him as yours.'--'Your friend!' said Valancourt, hastily,
'how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forget
your lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Monsieur Du
Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, has
stolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;--you are
your own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen
fortunes!' Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of
Valancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake be
reasonable--be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is the
Count his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy.
My heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase while your
frantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer the
Valancourt I have been accustomed to love.'

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his
face concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling,
wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.

'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lament
my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without
recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was I
forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make
me despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption,
to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!'--The
recollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yielded
to tears. After a long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand,
he said, in a softened voice, 'Emily, can you bear that we should
part--can you resolve to give up an heart, that loves you like mine--an
heart, which, though it has erred--widely erred, is not irretrievable
from error, as, you well know, it never can be retrievable from love?'
Emily made no reply, but with her tears. 'Can you,' continued he, 'can
you forget all our former days of happiness and confidence--when I had
not a thought, that I might wish to conceal from you--when I had no
taste--no pleasures, in which you did not participate?'

'O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,' said Emily, 'unless
you can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach you;
if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render your
present sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with your
former virtues?'

'Those virtues,' said Valancourt, 'might, perhaps, again be mine, if
your affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;--but I fear, indeed,
I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which we
have passed together, would plead for me, and you could not look
back upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with the
remembrance--why do I linger here? Am I not ruined--would it not be
madness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was still
my own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go,' added he,
in a solemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatever may be my
destiny--whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always love
you--most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leave
you--to leave you, forever!' As he spoke the last words, his voice
trembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he had
risen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell.
All impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was
obliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.

'My fortitude is gone,' said Valancourt at length; 'I can no longer
even struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you--I cannot bid you
an eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.'
Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured
to believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed
by recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who
could not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations,
however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on the
condition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor
Du Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightened
by this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense of
misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and
remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censorious
remarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the
curiosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible
to tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembrance
of the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness, that she was to
see him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more terrible to
her than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had made of his
ill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the strength and
tenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had deeply
impressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to his
disadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to her
impossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reported
of him, which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity,
were entirely so with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was the
criminality, which had given rise to the reports, she could not now
believe them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally closed
against the charms of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he felt as
well as expressed of his errors, seemed to justify the opinion; and,
as she understood not the instability of youthful dispositions, when
opposed by habit, and that professions frequently deceive those, who
make, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to the
flattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt,
had she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. He
represented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her present
situation, that of listening to promises of amendment, made under the
influence of strong passion, and the slight hope, which could attach
to a connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrieval
of ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On these
accounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second interview,
for he saw how much it would shake her resolution and increase the
difficulty of her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she
forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately had
excited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very anxious
to disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not appear
in Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and dismal
night; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late scenes with
Valancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was obliged
to recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of to
strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from her
deceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act,
with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her
life. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when,
remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible,
that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appeared
certain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she readily
believed all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil, rather
than that of an immediate separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection
and reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and
irresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.

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

completion: When Em and Valancourt finally have their dreaded talk, Em spells it out pretty clearly for her poor beau: she still loves him, but the whole marriage thing definitely is not going to be happening. Valancourt is pretty devastated, but he also admits he isn't worthy of Em. He totally regrets gambling his life savings away in Paris, by the way. Not a good move. Em's completely wrecked. She's so upset that she forgets that old Dorothee is supposed to tell her about the Marchioness. But Dorothee doesn't show, so Em can mope over Valancourt in peace.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER II

 Come, weep with me;--past hope, past cure, past help!
     ROMEO AND JULIET

Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.
The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first loved
her, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the
passing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set
out for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him in
ruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this from her. But
he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must give to their
marriage, and did not foresee, that the information could induce her to
break their connection forever. While the prospect of this separation
overwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach, he awaited their
second interview, in a state little short of distraction, yet was still
inclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exact
it. In the morning, he sent to know at what hour she would see him;
and his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought an
opportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceived
the extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her
fortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, the
Count returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his
fear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her the
lengthened misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to encounter
some present uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alone
have protected her from the affection she still felt for Valancourt, and
she resolved to be governed by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least,
with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that
he could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were
alternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.
Afterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you--I do love you, better than
my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangle
you in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather than subject
myself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of you. I am a
wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.--I will not endeavour to
shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion. I resign
you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in considering, that,
though I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy. The merit of the
sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never have attained
strength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded
it.'

He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which
came to her eyes. She would have said, 'You speak now, as you were wont
to do,' but she checked herself.--'Forgive me, Emily,' said he, 'all the
sufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of the
wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to
believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.' The tears now
fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the phrensy of
despair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to terminate
an interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of both.
Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt
struggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers.
'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he, 'shall in future be my
protection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power to
seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your
grief for me.'

Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. 'We are now parting for
ever,' said she; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always
remember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that
you have recovered your own esteem.' Valancourt took her hand;--his eyes
were covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost
in sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion,
'Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!' She repeated her 'farewell,'
and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed
it with his tears. 'Why prolong these moments?' said Emily, in a voice
scarcely audible, 'they are too painful to us both.' 'This is too--too
much,' exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself
into a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome,
for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause, during which
Emily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling with his grief,
she again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his
composure, 'I am again afflicting you,' said he, 'but let the anguish I
suffer plead for me.' He then added, in a solemn voice, which frequently
trembled with the agitation of his heart, 'Farewell, Emily, you will
always be the only object of my tenderness. Sometimes you will think of
the unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not be
with esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you--without your
esteem!' He checked himself--'I am falling again into the error I have
just lamented. I must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shall
relapse into despair.'

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at
her, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with
a pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and
listening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as
he crossed the hall. She was, at length, roused by the voice of the
Countess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the
first object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where
Valancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some time, repressed
by the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came to
her relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return to
her own room.

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

completion: Oh yeah, did we mention that Em agreed to see Valancourt one more time? They meet again and continue to lament their fates. Em can't marry Valancourt because he screwed up big-time, and Valancourt can't marry Em because he isn't worth the scum on her shoes. The pair promises to part forever. Looks like Emmencourt wasn't meant to be.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER III

  This is no mortal business, nor no sound
 That the earth owes!
     SHAKESPEARE

We now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointment
were soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emily
had awakened. His depredations having exceeded their usual limits, and
reached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercial
senate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance would
permit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, should
complete the suppression of his power and the correction of his
outrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of
receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly
by resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by
the hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, who
directed the enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation of
Udolpho rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after
some tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shewn how capable he
was of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be derived
from the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of troops, as
that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho without his
knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the republic to have a
large part of its regular force employed, for such a time as the siege
of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a handful of banditti. The
object of the expedition, he thought, might be accomplished much more
safely and speedily by mingling contrivance with force. It was possible
to meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack them
then; or, by approaching the fortress, with the secrecy, consistent with
the march of smaller bodies of troops, to take advantage either of the
treachery, or negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedly
upon the whole even in the castle of Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it,
received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His
first efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the
neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance
of several of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that he addressed,
unwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure their own
pardon from the senate. He learned also the number of Montoni's troops,
and that it had been much increased, since his late successes. The
conclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having returned with his
party, who received the watch-word and other assistance from their
friends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised by one division,
who had been directed to their apartment, while the other maintained the
slight combat, which preceded the surrender of the whole garrison. Among
the persons, seized with Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had
joined him on his first arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had
been made known to the senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful
attempt of the latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for
the purpose of capturing this man, by whom one of the senate had been
murdered, that the expedition was undertaken, and its success was so
acceptable to them, that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding
the political suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation,
had excited against him. The celerity and ease, with which this whole
transaction was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or
even from obtaining a place in any of the published records of that
time; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the
defeat and signal humiliation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason had
yet been able to controul. Count De Villefort, who sincerely attempted
whatever benevolence could suggest for softening them, sometimes
allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her into friendly
parties, and constantly protected her, as much as possible, from the
shrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the Countess. He often
invited her to make excursions, with him and his daughter, during which
he conversed entirely on questions, suitable to her taste, without
appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured gradually to withdraw her
from the subject of her grief, and to awake other interests in her mind.
Emily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and protector of
her youth, soon felt for him the tender affection of a daughter, and
her heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose
kindness and simplicity compensated for the want of more brilliant
qualities. It was long before she could sufficiently abstract her
mind from Valancourt to listen to the story, promised by old Dorothee,
concerning which her curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but
Dorothee, at length, reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that she
would come, that night, to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her
curiosity, and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised
her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. 'I am come, at
last, lady,' said she; 'I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake
so, to-night. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I
was a-coming.' Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would
compose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had
brought her thither. 'Alas,' said Dorothee, 'it is thinking of that, I
believe, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed
the chamber, where my dear lady died, and every thing was so still and
gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared upon
her death-bed.'

Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothee, who went on. 'It is about
twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau. O!
I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall, where
we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my lord the
Marquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!--But, as I was saying,
ma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet looks, did not
look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he said it was all
fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My lady
Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I have often thought, very
like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open house, for a long time,
and gave such entertainments and there were such gay doings as have
never been in the chateau since. I was younger, ma'amselle, then, than
I am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I remember I danced with
Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, not
such as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons all about it. It
was very becoming truly;--my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he was a
good-natured gentleman then--who would have thought that he!'--

'But the Marchioness, Dorothee,' said Emily, 'you was telling me of
her.'

'O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart,
and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber;
but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did
not dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her
crying, I did, and she seemed displeased;--so I said no more. I found
out, some time after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commanded
her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another
nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was very
fond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she never
told me so. My lady always tried to conceal her tears from the Marquis,
for I have often seen her, after she has been so sorrowful, look so calm
and sweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of a sudden,
grew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my lady. This
afflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and she
used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good
humour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be
stubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all
in vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her
in the anti-room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her.
I used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be sure my lady was
greatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion. Among the
many chevaliers, that visited at the chateau, there was one, that I
always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yet
so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or
said. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis
was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head,
that this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never could
learn for certain.'

'What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?' said Emily.

'Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amselle, for evil may come of
it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness
was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been
privately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was
afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man; but
this seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I was
saying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the
chevalier I spoke of had been at the chateau, and, at last, his ill
treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any
visitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I was
her constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never
complained.

'After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill,
and I thought her long fretting had made her so,--but, alas! I fear it
was worse than that.'

'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that be possible?'

'I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will
only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis--'

'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?' said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard,
on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

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

'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,' said Dorothee, solemnly,
'and, if spirits ever bring music--that is surely the music of one!'

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had
formerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was
the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that
she was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much
affected, that she had nearly fainted.

'I think I once told you, madam,' said Dorothee, 'that I first heard
this music, soon after my lady's death! I well remember the night!'--
'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'let us open the window, and
listen.'

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance,
and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the woods,
whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every other
feature of the scene was involved in the night-shade, which, however,
allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe
upon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,
enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her
narrative.

'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that
music. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had sat up
later than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking
a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately
witnessed. The chateau was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a
good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournful
things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for I
felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened often, wishing to
hear a sound in the chateau, for you know, ma'amselle, when one can hear
people moving, one does not so much mind, about one's fears. But all the
servants were gone to bed, and I sat, thinking and thinking, till I was
almost afraid to look round the room, and my poor lady's countenance
often came to my mind, such as I had seen her when she was dying, and,
once or twice, I almost thought I saw her before me,--when suddenly I
heard such sweet music! It seemed just at my window, and I shall never
forget what I felt. I had not power to move from my chair, but then,
when I thought it was my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes.
I had often heard her sing, in her life-time, and to be sure she had a
very fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, when she
has sat in her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute such sad
songs, and singing so. O! it went to one's heart! I have listened in
the anti-chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sit
playing, with the window open, when it was summer time, till it was
quite dark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed
to know what hour it was. But, as I said, madam,' continued Dorothee,
'when first I heard the music, that came just now, I thought it was my
late lady's, and I have often thought so again, when I have heard it, as
I have done at intervals, ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone
by, but still it has returned.'

'It is extraordinary,' observed Emily, 'that no person has yet
discovered the musician.'

'Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have been
discovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, and
if they had, what good could it do?--for spirits, YOU KNOW, ma'am, can
take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and, the
next perhaps, in a quite different place!'

'Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,' said Emily, 'and acquaint
me with the manner of her death.'

'I will, ma'am,' said Dorothee, 'but shall we leave the window?'

'This cool air refreshes me,' replied Emily, 'and I love to hear it
creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You was
speaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.'

'Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and
my lady grew worse and worse, till, one night, she was taken very ill,
indeed. I was called up, and, when I came to her bedside, I was shocked
to see her countenance--it was so changed! She looked piteously up at
me, and desired I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come,
and tell him she had something particular to say to him. At last, he
came, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he said
very little. My lady told him she felt herself to be dying, and wished
to speak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I shall never
forget his look as I went.'

'When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a
doctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my lady
said it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so, seemed
to think light of her disorder--till she was seized with such terrible
pains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent off a man
and horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all over the
chateau in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady, and did
what I could to ease her sufferings. She had intervals of ease, and in
one of these she sent for my lord again; when he came, I was going, but
she desired I would not leave her. O! I shall never forget what a
scene passed--I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was almost
distracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took such
pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to enter
his head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be sure
he did seem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her,
and this affected her so much, that she fainted away.

'We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and
threw himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no
reason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquired
for him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, and
desired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma'amselle,
and she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of her
disorder was passed.'

Dorothee paused, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much
affected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek
patience, with which she had suffered.

'When the doctor came,' resumed Dorothee, 'alas! he came too late;
he appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a
frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the
attendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the
Marchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had been
seized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to mean
more, than he chose to say. But I understood him too well. However, I
kept my remarks to myself, and only told them to my husband, who bade
me hold my tongue. Some of the other servants, however, suspected what
I did, and strange reports were whispered about the neighbourhood, but
nobody dared to make any stir about them. When my lord heard that my
lady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but the doctor,
who used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and,
after that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. When
she was buried in the church of the convent, at a little distance
yonder, if the moon was up you might see the towers here, ma'amselle,
all my lord's vassals followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye
among them, for she had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, the
Marquis, I never saw any body so melancholy as he was afterwards, and
sometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost thought
he had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the chateau, but joined
his regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my husband and
I, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I never saw him
after, for he would not return to the chateau, though it is such a fine
place, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on the west
side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever since, till my
lord the Count came here.'

'The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,' said Emily, who
was anxious to know more than she dared to ask.

'Yes, madam,' replied Dorothee, 'it was extraordinary; I have told you
all I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say more,
because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord the
Count.'

'You are very right,' said Emily;--'where did the Marquis die?'--'In the
north of France, I believe, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee. 'I was very
glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a
sad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises,
sometimes, after my lady's death, that, as I told you before, my husband
and I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have told you
all this sad history, and all my thoughts, and you have promised, you
know, never to give the least hint about it.'--'I have,' said Emily,
'and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;--what you have told
has interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I could
prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought so
deserving of the Marchioness.'

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to the
notice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness. 'There is another
picture of her,' added she, 'hanging in a room of the suite, which was
shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and is
much more like you than the miniature.' When Emily expressed a strong
desire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did not like to open
those rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the other
day of ordering them to be opened; of which Dorothee seemed to consider
much, and then she owned, that she should feel less, if she went into
them with Emily first, than otherwise, and at length promised to shew
the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the
narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish
to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee would return
on the following night, when they were not likely to be observed, and
conduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the portrait, she felt
a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which the Marchioness had
died, and which Dorothee had said remained, with the bed and furniture,
just as when the corpse was removed for interment. The solemn emotions,
which the expectation of viewing such a scene had awakened, were
in unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by severe
disappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this
depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her melancholy
inclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which no virtue of
her own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason could
make her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him, whom she had
once esteemed and loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of
the chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,
however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of
the Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of the
music. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken, except by
the murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and then
by the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She now withdrew
from the window, and, as she sat at her bed-side, indulging melancholy
reveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness was
suddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon sounds, that
seemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from one
below. The terrible catastrophe, that had been related to her, together
with the mysterious circumstances, said to have since occurred in the
chateau, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk, for a
moment, under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did not
return, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story she had
heard.

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

completion: Hoo boy, Montoni was mad when Em flew the coop a couple chapters back. Let's catch up on his situation. It's not looking too good for the Udolpho crew. A powerful army is about to receive orders from Venice to march on the castle. A clever young officer is planning to partially take Udolpho by force while sneaking some soldiers in the castle walls. Spoiler alert: the plan totally works. Montoni and his criminal bud Orsino are taken prisoner. You better bet Count Morano is behind this whole shebang. He tipped off officials that Orsino was hiding out at Udolpho. Meanwhile, Em has no clue what's going on back at Udolpho. That's right, we're back to Em's story. Finally, Dorothee pays her a visit to fill her in on the late Marchioness's story. When the Marchioness first arrived at Chateau-le-Blanc, many years ago, she was beautiful but sad. Good old Dorothee was her personal servant, so she got all the good dirt on her mistress. Turns out she wanted to marry some mystery dude, but her dad made her marry the Marquis. Dorothee won't tell Em who the mystery dude is, though. The Marquis was a rude guy who didn't treat the Marchioness with much respect. In fact, Dorothee says, he was kind of a jerk. After some time at the chateau, the Marchioness fell suddenly and horribly ill. Dorothee remembers that when the Marchioness died of her illness, her face had turned entirely black. The Marquis didn't stick around to mourn his wife. He took off for the north of France, where rumor has it he died. Em has a hankering to see where the Marchioness died, so she makes Dorothee promise to come back the following night to show off her late lady's chambers. Em definitely has a taste for the macabre.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER IV

 Now it is the time of night,
 That, the graves all gaping wide,
 Every one lets forth his spite,
 In the church-way path to glide.
     SHAKESPEARE

On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came to
Emily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been
particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along
the north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, as
Emily's room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent
of the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose
observations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might excite
enquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She,
therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they
ventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone
to bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly still, or
Dorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her
spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past events,
and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these had
occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily too was
affected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear.
From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them,
they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, at
first, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity
and alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to support
her feeble steps.

They had to descend the great stair-case, and, after passing over a
wide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led to the suite
of rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the open
corridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers
of the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from
thence, descending the chief stair-case, they crossed the hall itself.
Proceeding through the servants hall, where the dying embers of a wood
fire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was surrounded
by chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of the
back stair-case. Old Dorothee here paused, and looked around; 'Let us
listen,' said she, 'if any thing is stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hear
any voice?' 'None,' said Emily, 'there certainly is no person up in the
chateau, besides ourselves.'--'No, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, 'but I
have never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know,
my fears are not wonderful.'--'What do you know?' said Emily.--'O,
ma'amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door on
the left is the one we must open.'

They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the stair-case, Dorothee
applied the key to the lock. 'Ah,' said she, as she endeavoured to turn
it, 'so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear it
will not move.' Emily was more successful, and they presently entered a
spacious and ancient chamber.

'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the last time I passed
through this door--I followed my poor lady's corpse!'

Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky and
solemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on through
a long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than the
rest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence.

'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' said Dorothee faintly, 'we are going
into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah,
ma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?'

Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment was
furnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and try to compose her
spirits.

'How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to my
mind!' said Dorothee; 'it seems as if it was but yesterday since all
that sad affair happened!'

'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily.

Dorothee, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, and
they listened--but, every thing remaining still, the old woman spoke
again upon the subject of her sorrow. 'This saloon, ma'amselle, was in
my lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau, and it was fitted
up according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you can
now hardly see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of the
best--ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time!--all
this grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion of
some in the Louvre there, except those large glasses, and they came from
some outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. How the colours are faded
already!--since I saw it last!'

'I understood, that was twenty years ago,' observed Emily.

'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'and well remembered, but all the
time between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to be
greatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, or
other, but I have forgot the name.'

Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, by
verses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that it
exhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances.

Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked the
door that led into the late Marchioness's apartment, and Emily passed
into a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious, that
the lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while Dorothee, when she
entered, had dropped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcely
trusted herself with the view of a scene so affecting to her. It was
some time before Emily perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which the
Marchioness was said to have died; when, advancing to the upper end of
the room, she discovered the high canopied tester of dark green damask,
with the curtains descending to the floor in the fashion of a tent,
half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had been left twenty years
before; and over the whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, of
black velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily shuddered, as she held
the lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where she almost
expected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering the
horror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in the
turret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning from
the bed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it, exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin!
methinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall--as when last I saw
her!'

Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily again within
the curtains, but the blackness of the pall only appeared; while
Dorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, and
presently tears brought her some relief.

'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was here I sat on that
terrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last words, and
saw all her sufferings--HERE she died in my arms!'

'Do not indulge these painful recollections,' said Emily, 'let us go.
Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect you.'

'It hangs in the oriel,' said Dorothee rising, and going towards a small
door near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily followed with the
light, into the closet of the late Marchioness.

'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, pointing to a portrait
of a lady, 'there is her very self! just as she looked when she came
first to the chateau. You see, madam, she was all blooming like you,
then--and so soon to be cut off!'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, which
bore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though the expression of the
countenance in each was somewhat different; but still she thought she
perceived something of that pensive melancholy in the portrait, which so
strongly characterised the miniature.

'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at you
together,' said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied with,
exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it,
thought that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though she
could not now recollect who this was.

In this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchioness; a robe
and several articles of her dress were scattered upon the chairs, as if
they had just been thrown off. On the floor were a pair of black satin
slippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair of gloves and a long black
veil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, she perceived was dropping
to pieces with age.

'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'my lady's hand laid it there;
it has never been moved since!'

Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. 'I well remember
seeing her take it off,' continued Dorothee, 'it was on the night before
her death, when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded her
to take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her how
much better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me;
but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that she was to die, that
night.'

Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenly
over Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending even
to her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee intreated
that she would keep it on for one moment. 'I thought,' added she, 'how
like you would look to my dear mistress in that veil;--may your life,
ma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!'

Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on the
dressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on which
her eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large oriel
window of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and a
prayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Dorothee had
mentioned concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this window,
before she observed the lute itself, lying on a corner of the table, as
if it had been carelessly placed there by the hand, that had so often
awakened it.

'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee, 'for, when my dear lady
died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and my
lord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they did
when my lady was removed for interment.'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, which was a
Spanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating hand,
she took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords. They were out
of tune, but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorothee started at their
well-known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This is
the lute my lady Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she played
upon it--it was on the night that she died. I came as usual to undress
her, and, as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music from
the oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was sitting there, I
stepped softly to the door, which stood a little open, to listen; for
the music--though it was mournful--was so sweet! There I saw her, with
the lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the tears fell upon her
cheeks, while she sung a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and her
voice trembled, as it were, and then she would stop for a moment, and
wipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had often
listened to my lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it made
me cry, almost, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there
was the book open on the table beside her--aye, and there it lies open
still! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amselle,' added Dorothee, 'this
is a heart-breaking place!'

Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more upon
the bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading into
the saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it,
thought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of the
room. Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or it
is probable this circumstance, whether real or imaginary, would not have
affected her in the degree it did; but she endeavoured to conceal her
emotion from Dorothee, who, however, observing her countenance change,
enquired if she was ill.

'Let us go,' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of these rooms is
unwholesome;' but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she
must pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had
appeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, she
sat down on the side of the bed.

Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of the
melancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, endeavoured
to cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, she began to
relate other particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting,
that it might increase Emily's emotion, but because they were
particularly interesting to herself. 'A little before my lady's death,'
said she, 'when the pains were gone off, she called me to her, and
stretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there--where the curtain
falls upon the bed. How well I remember her look at the time--death
was in it!--I can almost fancy I see her now.--There she lay,
ma'amselle--her face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpane
was not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she was
laid out upon it.'

Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could have
seen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge of the white
pillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes
wandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Without
speaking, she caught Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the action, and
by the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to
the bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted,
and fall again.

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the bed;
and, at length, said--'It is only the wind, that waves it, ma'amselle;
we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the lamp,
too.--It is only the wind.'

She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violently
agitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors,
stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had
occasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, the
pall moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a human
countenance rose above it.

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as
fast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doors
of all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached the
stair-case, Dorothee threw open a chamber door, where some of the female
servants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived of
all presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion
of her terror from the astonished servants; and, though Dorothee, when
she could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, and was joined
by Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with the servants, who had
quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remainder of the night in a
room so near to these terrific chambers.

Dorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then began
to talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance,
that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her own
perceptions, had not those of Dorothee attested their truth. Having
now mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked the
housekeeper, whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened,
by which a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorothee
replied, that she had constantly kept the keys of the several doors
in her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds through the
castle, as she frequently did, to examine if all was safe, she had tried
these doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. It
was, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could have
got admittance into the apartments; and, if they could--it was very
improbable they should have chose to sleep in a place so cold and
forlorn.

Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, been
watched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them into
the rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in the
oriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed.

Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, on
entering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, and
this, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by any
of the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually have
excluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she now
persisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen was
nothing human, but some dreadful apparition.

Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be the
appearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fate
of the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and
this unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of her
sufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, to
which, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not
have yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by the
housekeeper. Her she now solemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence of
this night, and to make light of the terror she had already betrayed,
that the Count might not be distressed by reports, which would certainly
spread alarm and confusion among his family. 'Time,' she added, 'may
explain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch the event in
silence.'

Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had left
all the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courage
to return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some effort,
so far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany her to the
foot of the back stair-case, and to wait there while Dorothee ascended,
whose resolution being re-assured by this circumstance, she consented to
go, and they left Emily's apartment together.

No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls and
galleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back stair-case, Dorothee's
resolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen,
and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below,
and, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber,
she fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, and
returned to Emily.

As they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a sound
of lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall itself, and
they stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently distinguished
the voice of Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, with another
female servant, and so terrified by the report, which the other maids
had spread, that, believing she could be safe only where her lady was,
she was going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours to
laugh, or to argue her out of these terrors, were equally vain, and, in
compassion to her distress, she consented that she should remain in her
room during the night.

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

completion: The next night, Dorothee shows up to take Em to the Marchioness's chambers. Sounds like our idea of fun. Dorothee shows Em where she last saw the Marchioness's corpse, resting on an elaborate bed. She also shows Em a picture of her late mistress, who really is the spitting image of Em. Em thinks she sees a figure glide by, but she figures it's a mistake. Right? The ladies see a human figure rising by the bed. No mistake, this place is haunted! There's lots of screaming and flailing about, but Dorothee and Em get the heck out of dodge.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER V

  Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude!
 Companion of the wise and good--

 This is the balmy breath of morn,
 Just as the dew-bent rose is born.

 But chief when evening scenes decay
 And the faint landscape swims away,
 Thine is the doubtful, soft decline,
 And that best hour of musing thine.
     THOMSON

Emily's injunctions to Annette to be silent on the subject of her terror
were ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night spread such
alarm among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they had frequently
heard unaccountable noises in the chateau, that a report soon reached
the Count of the north side of the castle being haunted. He treated
this, at first, with ridicule, but, perceiving, that it was productive
of serious evil, in the confusion it occasioned among his household, he
forbade any person to repeat it, on pain of punishment.

The arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew his thoughts
entirely from this subject, and his servants had now little leisure to
brood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after supper, when they
all assembled in their hall, and related stories of ghosts, till they
feared to look round the room; started, if the echo of a closing door
murmured along the passage, and refused to go singly to any part of the
castle.

On these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure. When she told
not only of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all that she
had imagined, in the castle of Udolpho, with the story of the strange
disappearance of Signora Laurentini, she made no trifling impression on
the mind of her attentive auditors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni,
she would also have freely disclosed, had not Ludovico, who was now in
the service of the Count, prudently checked her loquacity, whenever it
pointed to that subject.

Among the visitors at the chateau was the Baron de Saint Foix, an old
friend of the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensible
and amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year seen the Lady
Blanche, at Paris, had become her declared admirer. The friendship,
which the Count had long entertained for his father, and the equality
of their circumstances made him secretly approve of the connection; but,
thinking his daughter at this time too young to fix her choice for
life, and wishing to prove the sincerity and strength of the Chevalier's
attachment, he then rejected his suit, though without forbidding his
future hope. This young man now came, with the Baron, his father,
to claim the reward of a steady affection, a claim, which the Count
admitted and which Blanche did not reject.

While these visitors were at the chateau, it became a scene of gaiety
and splendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and frequented,
in the fine evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour usually concluded
with a concert, at which the Count and Countess, who were scientific
performers, and the Chevaliers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche
and Emily, whose voices and fine taste compensated for the want of more
skilful execution, usually assisted. Several of the Count's servants
performed on horns and other instruments, some of which, placed at
a little distance among the woods, spoke, in sweet response, to the
harmony, that proceeded from the pavilion.

At any other period, these parties would have been delightful to
Emily; but her spirits were now oppressed with a melancholy, which
she perceived that no kind of what is called amusement had power to
dissipate, and which the tender and, frequently, pathetic, melody of
these concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree.

She was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on a
promontory, overlooking the sea. Their luxuriant shade was soothing to
her pensive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded of
the Mediterranean, with its winding shores and passing sails, tranquil
beauty was united with grandeur. The paths were rude and frequently
overgrown with vegetation, but their tasteful owner would suffer little
to be done to them, and scarcely a single branch to be lopped from the
venerable trees. On an eminence, in one of the most sequestered parts
of these woods, was a rustic seat, formed of the trunk of a decayed oak,
which had once been a noble tree, and of which many lofty branches still
flourishing united with beech and pines to over-canopy the spot. Beneath
their deep umbrage, the eye passed over the tops of other woods, to the
Mediterranean, and, to the left, through an opening, was seen a ruined
watch-tower, standing on a point of rock, near the sea, and rising from
among the tufted foliage.

Hither Emily often came alone in the silence of evening, and, soothed
by the scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from the waves, would
sit, till darkness obliged her to return to the chateau. Frequently,
also, she visited the watch-tower, which commanded the entire
prospect, and, when she leaned against its broken walls, and thought of
Valancourt, she not once imagined, what was so true, that this tower had
been almost as frequently his resort, as her own, since his estrangement
from the neighbouring chateau.

One evening, she lingered here to a late hour. She had sat on the steps
of the building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual effect
of evening over the extensive prospect, till the gray waters of the
Mediterranean and the massy woods were almost the only features of the
scene, that remained visible; when, as she gazed alternately on these,
and on the mild blue of the heavens, where the first pale star of
evening appeared, she personified the hour in the following lines:--

  SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR

 Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day,
 I move along the realms of twilight air,
 And hear, remote, the choral song decay
 Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.

 Then, as I follow through the azure void,
 His partial splendour from my straining eye
 Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide
 His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

 Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours,
 Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,
 While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs,
 As downward on the evening gale it floats.

 When fades along the West the Sun's last beam,
 As, weary, to the nether world he goes,
 And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,
 And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,

 Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal,
 And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,
 And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal,
 And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.

 Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;
 O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send,
 That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains
 And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.

 Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind,
 Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,
 In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind
 Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.

 His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,
 Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining rill,
 Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near,
 Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

 I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;
 When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep,
 And spy my pale star, leading on the night,--
 Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

 Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air,
 That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell;
 Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair,
 Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.

 The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade,
 With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,
 On river margin of some bow'ry glade,
 And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:

 But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
 For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud,
 And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace;
 Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud.

The moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched its gradual
progress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, the
sparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and the
battlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just
tinted with the rays. Emily's spirits were in harmony with this scene.
As she sat meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which she
immediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly heard at
midnight, and the emotion of awe, which she felt, was not unmixed with
terror, when she considered her remote and lonely situation. The sounds
drew nearer. She would have risen to leave the place, but they seemed
to come from the way she must have taken towards the chateau, and she
awaited the event in trembling expectation. The sounds continued to
approach, for some time, and then ceased. Emily sat listening, gazing
and unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from the shade of the
woods and pass along the bank, at some little distance before her. It
went swiftly, and her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, though
she saw, she did not much observe it.

Having left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it alone,
at so late an hour, she began to approach the chateau, when she heard
voices calling her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to it.
They were the shouts of the Count's servants, who were sent to search
for her; and when she entered the supper-room, where he sat with Henri
and Blanche, he gently reproached her with a look, which she blushed to
have deserved.

This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she withdrew
to her own room, it recalled so forcibly the circumstances she had
witnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely courage to remain
alone. She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having renewed
her fears, she, at length, sunk to repose. But this was of short
continuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise, that
seemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened. Groans
were distinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight fell
against the door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it open. She
called loudly to know who was there, but received no answer, though,
at intervals, she still thought she heard something like a low moaning.
Fear deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, she heard footsteps
in a remote part of the gallery, and, as they approached, she called
more loudly than before, till the steps paused at her door. She then
distinguished the voices of several of the servants, who seemed too
much engaged by some circumstance without, to attend to her calls; but,
Annette soon after entering the room for water, Emily understood, that
one of the maids had fainted, whom she immediately desired them to bring
into her room, where she assisted to restore her. When this girl had
recovered her speech, she affirmed, that, as she was passing up the back
stair-case, in the way to her chamber, she had seen an apparition on the
second landing-place; she held the lamp low, she said, that she might
pick her way, several of the stairs being infirm and even decayed, and
it was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this appearance. It stood for
a moment in the corner of the landing-place, which she was approaching,
and then, gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the apartment,
that had been lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow sound.

'Then the devil has got a key to that apartment,' said Dorothee, 'for it
could be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!'

The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great stair-case,
had run, with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, where she
fell, groaning, at Emily's door.

Gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to make
her ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, that she
had seen an apparition, till she went to her own room, whither she
was accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothee, who,
at Emily's request, remained with her during the night. Emily was
perplexed, and Dorothee was terrified, and mentioned many occurrences
of former times, which had long since confirmed her superstitions; among
these, according to her belief, she had once witnessed an appearance,
like that just described, and on the very same spot, and it was the
remembrance of it, that had made her pause, when she was going to ascend
the stairs with Emily, and which had increased her reluctance to open
the north apartments. Whatever might be Emily's opinions, she did
not disclose them, but listened attentively to all that Dorothee
communicated, which occasioned her much thought and perplexity.

From this night the terror of the servants increased to such an excess,
that several of them determined to leave the chateau, and requested
their discharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith in the subject of
their alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and, anxious to avoid the
inconvenience that threatened him, employed ridicule and then argument
to convince them they had nothing to apprehend from supernatural agency.
But fear had rendered their minds inaccessible to reason; and it was
now, that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for the
kindness he had received from the Count, by offering to watch, during a
night, in the suite of rooms, reputed to be haunted. He feared, he said,
no spirits, and, if any thing of human form appeared--he would prove
that he dreaded that as little.

The Count paused upon the offer, while the servants, who heard it,
looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and Annette, terrified
for the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to dissuade
him from his purpose.

'You are a bold fellow,' said the Count, smiling, 'Think well of what
you are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it.
However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your offer,
and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.'

'I desire no reward, your excellenza,' replied Ludovico, 'but your
approbation. Your excellenza has been sufficiently good to me already;
but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if he should
appear.'

'Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,' replied the Count,
throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, 'neither can bars,
or bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole as easily
as through a door.'

'Give me a sword, my lord Count,' said Ludovico, 'and I will lay all the
spirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'you shall have a sword, and good cheer, too;
and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to
remain another night in the chateau, since your boldness will certainly,
for this night, at least, confine all the malice of the spectre to
yourself.'

Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his fellow
servants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of Ludovico's
rashness.

Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his intention, and
was frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the north
apartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself of
fears for Ludovico's safety, though her reason represented these to be
absurd. The necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with which
Dorothee had entrusted her, and which must have been mentioned, with the
late occurrence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the north
apartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her apprehension;
and she tried only to sooth Annette, who held, that Ludovico was
certainly to be destroyed; and who was much less affected by Emily's
consolatory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothee, who often, as
she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to heaven.

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

completion: Em makes the mistake of telling loudmouth Annette all about the ghostly figure, which means half the castle knows by the morning. Luckily, there are some new visitors to distract from the ghost stories. The Baron de Saint Foix and his cute son, the Chevalier St. Foix, show up at the chateau. The Chevalier St. Foix is into Blanche in a big way. It's about time someone besides Em got some attention around here. On a quiet evening when Em takes a walk around the chateau grounds, she hears some more strange music. This girl seems to attract musicians wherever she goes. Em sits and listens for a while, and then retreats back to the castle. Meanwhile, Annette is whipping the servants up into a frenzy about the ghost in the Marchioness's room. The brave Ludovico offers to stay the night in the Marchioness's room to put an end to the rumors for once and all. Maybe he's a proto-Ghost Hunter.