prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER IV

 And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.
     THOMSON

Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons.
Quesnel, concerning La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries were
concise, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious of
possessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned. He
declared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; and
that she might consider herself indebted to his prudence for even the
small income that remained for her. 'But, however,' added he, 'when
this Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your present
disagreeable state of dependence will cease. As a relation to you I
rejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, and, I may
add, so unexpected by your friends.' For some moments Emily was chilled
into silence by this speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive him,
concerning the purport of the note she had inclosed in Montoni's letter,
he appeared to have some private reason for disbelieving her assertion,
and, for a considerable time, persevered in accusing her of capricious
conduct. Being, at length, however, convinced that she really disliked
Morano and had positively rejected his suit, his resentment was
extravagant, and he expressed it in terms equally pointed and inhuman;
for, secretly flattered by the prospect of a connection with a nobleman,
whose title he had affected to forget, he was incapable of feeling
pity for whatever sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his
ambition.

Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited
her, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounce
Valancourt for Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter with
the violent passions of her uncle.

She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity of
a superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to
exasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel
his own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she
persisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to
the contempt of the world.

The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone,
and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her
departed father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then
remembered. 'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive how much more
valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility,
and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will
not indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, with
firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.'

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St.
Aubert's last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which
he would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the company
met at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of countenance.

In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank of
the Brenta in Madame Quesnel's carriage. The state of Emily's mind was
in melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the shades
that overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing under the trees,
and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee and calmly
enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape.
Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt Apennines, ascending in the
distance, thought of Montoni's castle, and suffered some terror, lest he
should convey her thither, for the purpose of enforcing her obedience;
but the thought vanished, when she considered, that she was as much in
his power at Venice as she could be elsewhere.

It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper
was spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's fancy,
on the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico,
till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at
table, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity of
the hour. Presently, a barge stopped at the steps that led into the
gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the voices of Montoni and
Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next moment, appeared. His
compliments she received in silence, and her cold air seemed at first to
discompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of manner,
though the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily perceived
disgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believed
could be shewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen him
otherwise than in the presence of his inferiors or equals.

When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost
involuntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with the
Count to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared more
probable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment and
throwing herself upon his generosity for a release. When, however,
on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from the
adoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant to
her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a man
as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatiently
rejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused upon
it for a moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated in the most
decisive terms she could select, mingling with it a severe censure
of his conduct; but, though the Count appeared mortified by this, he
persevered in the most ardent professions of admiration, till he was
interrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel.

During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered
miserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly
exerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed
now more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they had even
appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both argument and
menace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate conclusion to it, at
length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted to the power of Montoni
and to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, looked to Venice
with hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure from the
persecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the same
house with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would
not permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of her
own misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she
pleaded with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight
and general terms, that she should not be forgotten.

Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to
be pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, as
soon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded.

It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was
connected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she
took leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory
one she had known in their presence.

Morano returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched her
gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person,
who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They
arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presence
of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered
to retire to her own apartment.

On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held
with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, and
that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageous
to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of such extent
as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated without further
delay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent.

Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to
supplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a
man of Montoni's disposition, supplication would be equally useless. She
afterwards enquired by what right he exerted this unlimited authority
over her? a question, which her better judgment would have with-held
her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her nothing,
and would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing over her
defenceless condition.

'By what right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right of
my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you do
so. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in a
foreign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend;
you know the means; if you compel me to become your enemy--I will
venture to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation.
You may know _I_ am not to be trifled with.'

Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state of
despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all that
remained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at the
sound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened by
the expression of despair, that fixed her countenance, spoke in a manner
more kind than she had ever yet done. Emily's heart was touched; she
shed tears, and, after weeping for some time, recovered sufficient
composure to speak on the subject of her distress, and to endeavour to
interest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though the compassion of her
aunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to be overcome, and
her present object was to be the aunt of a Countess. Emily's efforts,
therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she
withdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. How often did she
remember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian
had mentioned Montoni's character with less reserve! When her mind,
however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she
considered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her alliance
with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part of the
marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to await
Montoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for life to a
man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had she never
even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she thus resolved
to brave.

An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off
Montoni's attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were
renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice.
There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight
councils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more
reserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own
interests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived, that
something extraordinary was working in his mind.

One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great
agitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to
Montoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home
immediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name. Montoni
obeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of the
circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, with a
part of which he was already acquainted.

A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatred
of Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, as
the murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate had
taken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who had
confessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and the
latter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni to consult on
the measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew, that, at this
time, the officers of the police were upon the watch for him, all over
the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was impracticable, and
Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the vigilance of
justice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. He knew
the danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in his
house, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that he
did not think it prudent to refuse him an asylum.

Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and for
whom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his character.

While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling to
attract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this
obstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his criminal
visitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was to be
celebrated on the following morning. To her repeated assurances, that
it should not take place, he replied only by a malignant smile; and,
telling her that the Count and a priest would be at his house, early
in the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment, by
opposition to his will and to her own interest. 'I am now going out for
the evening,' said he, 'remember, that I shall give your hand to Count
Morano in the morning.' Emily, having, ever since his late threats,
expected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, was
less shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been,
and she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriage
could not be valid, so long as she refused before the priest to repeat
any part of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her
long-harassed spirits shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his
vengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was not even perfectly
certain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, and
she trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed
unlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to
transgress any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.

While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of
distraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see
her, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she
repented that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting to
her former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and
entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain had
failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message,
prepared to go down to the Count.

The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the
kind of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were
circumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving,
as they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated his
judgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of complacency
and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained invariably the
same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every insinuating art
he so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured, that she
had nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn and
impressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted him
with an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained
against every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. A
just pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowed
from the fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of her
late father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea of
Valancourt.

She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment,
sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others,
endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare herself
to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following morning, when
all the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni would be united
against her.

The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber
with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She
had, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual
insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view of
Emily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible,
it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother's orphan child,
whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying father.

Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost
hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if
she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it,
and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a
marriage, which ought only to make her happy. 'I am sure,' said she, 'if
I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have been
flattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure,
niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured,
and shew a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count, for his
condescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly
he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give
yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he,
I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know
yourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell
you, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of
so much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often
tell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such
extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'

'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,
than my own,' said Emily.

'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that his
flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may
have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I
can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the
Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you
to repent at your leisure, long ago.'

'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said Emily,
with a heavy sigh.

'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni;
'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to
convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to
necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you
like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is
from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault if
you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind of
a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your ambition?'

'I have no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is to
remain in my present station.'

'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see
you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all
those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be
something like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to
the purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you
know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no
longer.'

Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it
would be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the
Count's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then,
desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night.
'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closed
upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad reflections.
For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly unconscious
where she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the room,
its gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on the
door, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously for
some sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it
was past midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up for
Montoni, had retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now
yielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity
of her spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind,
which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her
aunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and to
cross the apartment.

These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired
to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at
least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits
sufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching morning.

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

completion: Luckily, the Quesnels are coming to visit. This should clear things up, right? Wrong. Quesnel's really not interested in anything Em has to say. The wedding is on! In the middle of all of this madness, Orsino gets himself in some trouble. He hires an assassin to waylay and kill an enemy of his. Montoni, being a good buddy, hides Orsino in his house. It's the night before the wedding, and Madame Cheron is trying to talk some sense into Emily. But Emily still loves Valancourt. She tries to go to sleep, but can't help imagining terrible things. Things aren't looking too hot for Em.


prompt:
Chapter: CHAPTER V

 Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted thought
 Be mine to read the visions old
 Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
 And, lest they meet my blasted view,
 Hold each strange tale devoutly true.
     COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR

Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at
length, sunk, by a quick knocking at her chamber door. She started up
in terror, for Montoni and Count Morano instantly came to her mind; but,
having listened in silence for some time, and recognizing the voice
of Annette, she rose and opened the door. 'What brings you hither so
early?' said Emily, trembling excessively. She was unable to support
herself, and sat down on the bed.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not look so pale. I am quite
frightened to see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the
servants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough! Here is a
bustle, indeed, all of a sudden, and nobody knows for what!'

'Who is below besides them?' said Emily, 'Annette, do not trifle with
me!'

'Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would not trifle for the world; but
one cannot help making one's remarks, and there is the Signor in such
a bustle, as I never saw him before; and he has sent me to tell you,
ma'am, to get ready immediately.'

'Good God support me!' cried Emily, almost fainting, 'Count Morano is
below, then!'

'No, ma'amselle, he is not below that I know of,' replied Annette, 'only
his excellenza sent me to desire you would get ready directly to leave
Venice, for that the gondolas would be at the steps of the canal in a
few minutes: but I must hurry back to my lady, who is just at her wits
end, and knows not which way to turn for haste.'

'Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go,' said
Emily, so overcome with surprise and timid hope, that she had scarcely
breath to speak.

'Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I can do. I only know that the
Signor is just come home in a very ill humour, that he has had us
all called out of our beds, and tells us we are all to leave Venice
immediately.'

'Is Count Morano to go with the signor?' said Emily, 'and whither are we
going?'

'I know neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say something
about going, after we get to terra-firma, to the signor's castle among
some mountains, that he talked of.'

'The Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! then I have little to hope!'

'That is the very place, ma'am. But cheer up, and do not take it so much
to heart, and think what a little time you have to get ready in, and how
impatient the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on the canal;
and now they come nearer, and now they are dashing at the steps below;
it is the gondola, sure enough.'

Annette hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this unexpected
flight, as fast as her trembling hands would permit, not perceiving,
that any change in her situation could possibly be for the worse. She
had scarcely thrown her books and clothes into her travelling
trunk, when, receiving a second summons, she went down to her aunt's
dressing-room, where she found Montoni impatiently reproving his wife
for delay. He went out, soon after, to give some further orders to his
people, and Emily then enquired the occasion of this hasty journey; but
her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as herself, and to undertake the
journey with more reluctance.

The family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni,
was of the party. Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when the
gondolieri dashed their oars in the water, and put off from the steps
of the portico, felt like a criminal, who receives a short reprieve. Her
heart beat yet lighter, when they emerged from the canal into the ocean,
and lighter still, when they skimmed past the walls of St. Mark, without
having stopped to take up Count Morano.

The dawn now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores of
the Adriatic. Emily did not venture to ask any questions of Montoni, who
sat, for some time, in gloomy silence, and then rolled himself up in his
cloak, as if to sleep, while Madame Montoni did the same; but Emily, who
could not sleep, undrew one of the little curtains of the gondola,
and looked out upon the sea. The rising dawn now enlightened the
mountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower sides, and the distant waves,
that rolled at their feet, were still in deep shadow. Emily, sunk in
tranquil melancholy, watched the strengthening light spreading upon the
ocean, shewing successively Venice and her islets, and the shores of
Italy, along which boats, with their pointed latin sails, began to move.

The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by the
market-people, as they glided by towards Venice, and the lagune
soon displayed a gay scene of innumerable little barks, passing from
terra-firma with provisions. Emily gave a last look to that splendid
city, but her mind was then occupied by considering the probable events,
that awaited her, in the scenes, to which she was removing, and with
conjectures, concerning the motive of this sudden journey. It appeared,
upon calmer consideration, that Montoni was removing her to his secluded
castle, because he could there, with more probability of success,
attempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should its gloomy and
sequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced marriage with the
Count could there be solemnized with the secrecy, which was necessary
to the honour of Montoni. The little spirit, which this reprieve had
recalled, now began to fail, and, when Emily reached the shore, her mind
had sunk into all its former depression.

Montoni did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in carriages
across the country, towards the Apennine; during which journey, his
manner to Emily was so particularly severe, that this alone would have
confirmed her late conjecture, had any such confirmation been necessary.
Her senses were now dead to the beautiful country, through which she
travelled. Sometimes she was compelled to smile at the naivete of
Annette, in her remarks on what she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as a
scene of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt to her thoughts, who was
indeed seldom absent from them, and of whom she could never hope to hear
in the solitude, to which she was hastening.

At length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. The
immense pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these mountains,
and between which the road wound, excluded all view but of the cliffs
aspiring above, except, that, now and then, an opening through the dark
woods allowed the eye a momentary glimpse of the country below. The
gloom of these shades, their solitary silence, except when the breeze
swept over their summits, the tremendous precipices of the mountains,
that came partially to the eye, each assisted to raise the solemnity of
Emily's feelings into awe; she saw only images of gloomy grandeur, or of
dreadful sublimity, around her; other images, equally gloomy and equally
terrible, gleamed on her imagination. She was going she scarcely
knew whither, under the dominion of a person, from whose arbitrary
disposition she had already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a man
who possessed neither her affection, or esteem; or to endure, beyond the
hope of succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge,
might dictate.--The more she considered what might be the motive of the
journey, the more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose of
concluding her nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy, which
her resolute resistance had made necessary to the honour, if not to
the safety, of Montoni. From the deep solitudes, into which she was
immerging, and from the gloomy castle, of which she had heard
some mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair, and she
experienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiar
distress, it was still alive to the influence of new and local
circumstance; why else did she shudder at the idea of this desolate
castle?

As the travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose over
steep, the mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what was the
summit of one eminence proved to be only the base of another. At length,
they reached a little plain, where the drivers stopped to rest the
mules, whence a scene of such extent and magnificence opened below, as
drew even from Madame Montoni a note of admiration. Emily lost, for a
moment, her sorrows, in the immensity of nature. Beyond the amphitheatre
of mountains, that stretched below, whose tops appeared as numerous
almost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet were concealed by the
forests--extended the campagna of Italy, where cities and rivers, and
woods and all the glow of cultivation were mingled in gay confusion. The
Adriatic bounded the horizon, into which the Po and the Brenta, after
winding through the whole extent of the landscape, poured their fruitful
waves. Emily gazed long on the splendours of the world she was quitting,
of which the whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to
increase her regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that
world; to him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter
tears.

From this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among the
pines, till they entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut out
every feature of the distant country, and, in its stead, exhibited only
tremendous crags, impending over the road, where no vestige of humanity,
or even of vegetation, appeared, except here and there the trunk and
scathed branches of an oak, that hung nearly headlong from the rock,
into which its strong roots had fastened. This pass, which led into the
heart of the Apennine, at length opened to day, and a scene of mountains
stretched in long perspective, as wild as any the travellers had yet
passed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their base, and crowned the
ridgy precipice, that rose perpendicularly from the vale, while, above,
the rolling mists caught the sun-beams, and touched their cliffs
with all the magical colouring of light and shade. The scene seemed
perpetually changing, and its features to assume new forms, as the
winding road brought them to the eye in different attitudes; while the
shifting vapours, now partially concealing their minuter beauties and
now illuminating them with splendid tints, assisted the illusions of the
sight.

Though the deep vallies between these mountains were, for the most part,
clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a perspective
of only barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their summit among
broken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom, foamed along with
unceasing fury; and sometimes pastoral scenes exhibited their 'green
delights' in the narrow vales, smiling amid surrounding horror. There
herds and flocks of goats and sheep, browsing under the shade of hanging
woods, and the shepherd's little cabin, reared on the margin of a clear
stream, presented a sweet picture of repose.

Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less
of the sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance
of Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotions
of indescribable awe which she had so continually experienced, in her
passage over the Alps.

Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains,
whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded
it. To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the Apennines in their
darkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring summits, rising
over each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stronger
image of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had just
sunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose long
shadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping rays, shooting
through an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the
summits of the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed
in full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle, that
spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The
splendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted
shade, which involved the valley below.

'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 'is
Udolpho.'

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to
be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the
gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey
stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light
died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread
deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the
battlements above were still tipped with splendour. From those, too,
the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn
duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand
the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all, who dared to
invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its features
became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its
clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods,
beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.

The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in
her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under
the trees. At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and,
soon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal
bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increased
the fearful emotions, that had assailed Emily. While they waited till
the servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously
surveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed her to
distinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls
of the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary. From
the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the
whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic
size, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging
turrets, embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved long grass and
wild plants, that had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which
seemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around
them. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also,
below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis, surmounting
the gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts extended to other
towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing on
a gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war.--Beyond
these all was lost in the obscurity of evening.

While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard within
the gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient servant of
the castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to admit
his lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis,
Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she was going into her prison;
the gloomy court, into which she passed, served to confirm the idea,
and her imagination, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even more
terrors, than her reason could justify.

Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and more
wild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight its
desolation--its lofty walls, overtopt with briony, moss and nightshade,
and the embattled towers that rose above,--long-suffering and murder
came to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and unaccountable
convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed her
with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished, when she entered an
extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening, which a light,
glimmering at a distance through a long perspective of arches, only
rendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp nearer partial
gleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches, forming a strong
contrast with their shadows, that stretched along the pavement and the
walls.

The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making any
other preparations for his reception, than could be had in the short
interval, since the arrival of the servant, who had been sent forward
from Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the air of
extreme desolation, that everywhere appeared.

The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the
muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.--Montoni
noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on,
while his lady, following, and looking round with a degree of surprise
and discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily,
surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder,
approached a marble stair-case. The arches here opened to a lofty vault,
from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant was hastily
lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor, leading into
several upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching nearly from
the pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible.

Having crossed the foot of the stair-case, and passed through an
ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted
with black larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were
scarcely distinguishable from darkness itself. 'Bring more light,'
said Montoni, as he entered. The servant, setting down his lamp, was
withdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the evening
air of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should like a
fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.

While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat
silently on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant
returned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation of
the apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single lamp,
placed near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the scene,
with the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms folded,
and his countenance shaded by the plume, that waved in his hat.

From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to the
apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of
Valancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into
sorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears, she
walked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the ramparts,
below which, spread the woods she had passed in her approach to the
castle. But the night-shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond, and
their indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon,
where a red streak yet glimmered in the west. The valley between was
sunk in darkness.

The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door,
was scarcely less gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at the
gates, now entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while two of
Montoni's Venetian servants followed with lights.

'Your excellenza is welcome to the castle,' said the old man, as he
raised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: 'it has been
a lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor, knowing we
had but short notice. It is near two years, come next feast of St. Mark,
since your excellenza was within these walls.'

'You have a good memory, old Carlo,' said Montoni: 'it is there-about;
and how hast thou contrived to live so long?'

'A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through the
castle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought sometimes of
asking your excellenza to let me leave the mountains, and go down into
the lowlands. But I don't know how it is--I am loth to quit these old
walls I have lived in so long.'

'Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?' said
Montoni.

'Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing.
There is the north tower--some of the battlements have tumbled down, and
had liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) on
the head. Your excellenza must know'--

'Well, but the repairs,' interrupted Montoni.

'Aye, the repairs,' said Carlo: 'a part of the roof of the great hall
has fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed through it
last winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, that there was no
keeping one's self warm, be where one would. There, my wife and I used
to sit shivering over a great fire in one corner of the little hall,
ready to die with cold, and'--

'But there are no more repairs wanted,' said Montoni, impatiently.

'O Lord! Your excellenza, yes--the wall of the rampart has tumbled down
in three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery, have
been a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up them; and the
passage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the north
rampart--one night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, and
your excellenza'--

'Well, well, enough of this,' said Montoni, with quickness: 'I will talk
more with thee to-morrow.'

The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped
the dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left the
room.

Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several
attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while
Emily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At
length, in a tremulous voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir, the motive
of this sudden journey?'--After a long pause, she recovered sufficient
courage to repeat the question.

'It does not suit me to answer enquiries,' said Montoni, 'nor does it
become you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I may
be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to your
chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than that
of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by the
gentlest name, is only a weakness.'

Emily rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam,' said she to her aunt, with
an assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion.

'Good night, my dear,' said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness, which
her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected endearment
brought tears to Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and was
retiring; 'But you do not know the way to your chamber,' said her aunt.
Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and bade
him send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few minutes, Emily
withdrew.

'Do you know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as they crossed the
hall.

'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange rambling
place! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber,
over the south rampart, and I went up this great stair-case to it. My
lady's room is at the other end of the castle.'

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they
passed through which, Annette resumed her chat--'What a wild lonely
place this is, ma'am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How
often, and often have I wished myself in France again! I little thought,
when I came with my lady to see the world, that I should ever be shut up
in such a place as this, or I would never have left my own country!
This way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe in giants
again, and such like, for this is just like one of their castles; and,
some night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies too, hopping about
in that great old hall, that looks more like a church, with its huge
pillars, than any thing else.'

'Yes,' said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious
thought, 'if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down into
the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps,
and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of delicious music;
for it is in such places as this, you know, that they come to hold
their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be able to pay the
necessary penance for such a sight: and, if once they hear your voice,
the whole scene will vanish in an instant.'

'O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the
corridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it
shall not be my fault if the show vanishes.--But do you think they will
come?'

'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it
will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.'

'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I am
not so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are a
plentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened to
death, if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walk
softly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me.'

'Ridiculous!' said Emily, 'you must not indulge such fancies.'

'O ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says these
dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live
in; and I verily believe, if I LIVE long in them I shall turn to one
myself!'

'I hope,' said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of
these weak fears; they would highly displease him.'

'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined Annette. 'No,
no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can sleep
sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am sure.'
Emily did not appear to notice this remark.

'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back stair-case. O! if I
see any thing, I shall be frightened out of my wits!'

'That will scarcely be possible,' said Emily smiling, as she followed
the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and then
Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had been
so eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through
other passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by their
intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but they
were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side of
the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left.

'O! do not go in there, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'you will only lose
yourself further.'

'Bring the light forward,' said Emily, 'we may possibly find our way
through these rooms.'

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light
held up to shew the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not half
of it. 'Why do you hesitate?' said Emily, 'let me see whither this room
leads.'

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and
ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others
wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was,
seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance
of grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the
damps, and with age.

'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!' said Annette: 'nobody has lived
in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.'

'They may open upon the great stair-case, perhaps,' said Emily, passing
on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light
to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.--He was
darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and
who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier,
whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the
countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni.
She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily over
several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black
silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped
before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus
carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. 'Holy Virgin! what
can this mean?' exclaimed Annette. 'This is surely the picture they told
me of at Venice.'

'What picture?' said Emily. 'Why a picture--a picture,' replied Annette,
hesitatingly--'but I never could make out exactly what it was about,
either.'

'Remove the veil, Annette.'

'What! I, ma'amselle!--I! not for the world!' Emily, turning round, saw
Annette's countenance grow pale. 'And pray, what have you heard of
this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?' said she. 'Nothing,
ma'amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.'

'Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light,
Annette, while I lift the veil.' Annette took the light, and immediately
walked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to stay, who, not
choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her.
'What is the reason of this, Annette?' said Emily, when she overtook
her, 'what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you so
unwilling to stay when I bid you?'

'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle, replied Annette, 'nor
any thing about the picture, only I have heard there is something very
dreadful belonging to it--and that it has been covered up in black EVER
SINCE--and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years--and it
somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montoni
came to the possession of it--and'---

'Well, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you say--that
you know nothing about the picture.'

'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise never to
tell:--but'--

'Well,' rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between
her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the
consequence, 'I will enquire no further'---

'No, pray, ma'am, do not.'

'Lest you should tell all,' interrupted Emily.

Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremity
of this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after some further
perplexity, once more at the top of the marble stair-case, where Annette
left Emily, while she went to call one of the servants of the castle to
shew them to the chamber, for which they had been seeking.

While she was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the picture; an
unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked her
enquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming hints,
which Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her curiosity
was entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her questions might
easily be answered. She was now, however, inclined to go back to the
apartment and examine the picture; but the loneliness of the hour and
of the place, with the melancholy silence that reigned around her,
conspired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the mystery attending
this picture, to prevent her. She determined, however, when day-light
should have re-animated her spirits, to go thither and remove the veil.
As she leaned from the corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyes
wandered round, she again observed, with wonder, the vast strength of
the walls, now somewhat decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that
rose from the hall, and supported the roof.

A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her chamber,
which was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very end of the
corridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened, through which they
had been wandering. The lonely aspect of her room made Emily unwilling
that Annette should leave her immediately, and the dampness of it
chilled her with more than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant of the
castle, to bring some wood and light a fire.

'Aye, lady, it's many a year since a fire was lighted here,' said
Caterina.

'You need not tell us that, good woman,' said Annette; 'every room in
the castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here;
for my part, I wish myself at Venice again.' Emily waved her hand for
Caterina to fetch the wood.

'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber?' said Annette,
while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty and
spacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, too, had
its walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other furniture was
very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that she
had seen in the castle. One of the high casements, which she opened,
overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid in darkness.

In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and to
restrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. She
wished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the castle,
but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to mention family
concerns to a servant, withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette's thoughts were
engaged upon another subject: she dearly loved the marvellous, and
had heard of a circumstance, connected with the castle, that highly
gratified this taste. Having been enjoined not to mention it, her
inclination to tell it was so strong, that she was every instant on the
point of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange circumstance, too,
and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe punishment; but she knew,
that Montoni might impose one much severer, and she feared to incur it
by offending him.

Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a
while, the gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady
had enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sad
reflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern manners
of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she had been when
she first witnessed them. The tenderness and affection, to which she had
been accustomed, till she lost her parents, had made her particularly
sensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse as this no
apprehension had prepared her to support.

To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her
spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As
she walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and,
perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she
brought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it,
and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow stair-case
that wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to what
it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so immediately
with her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, she wanted
courage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door, therefore,
she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination, perceived,
that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on the
other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure remedied
the defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this
remote room alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and which
could not be perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished to
entreat of Madame Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with
her all night, but was deterred by an apprehension of betraying what
would be thought childish fears, and by an unwillingness to increase the
apt terrors of Annette.

Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in
the corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper,
sent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the good
girl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast was over,
Annette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood into a blaze,
drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and said--'Did you ever
hear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident, that made the Signor lord of
this castle?'

'What wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, concealing the
curiosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard on
that subject.

'I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, looking round
the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it me as we
travelled together: says he, "Annette, you don't know about this castle
here, that we are going to?" No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you
know? But, ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would not tell it
you for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they say, that the
Signor does not like to have it talked of.'

'If you promised to keep this secret,' said Emily, 'you do right not to
mention it.'

Annette paused a moment, and then said, 'O, but to you, ma'amselle, to
you I may tell it safely, I know.'

Emily smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself,
Annette.'

Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded--'This
castle, you must know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, and
has stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni's
always, nor his father's; no; but, by some law or other, it was to come
to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.'

'What lady?' said Emily.

'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am going
to tell you about, ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady lived in
the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you may suppose,
ma'amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and was in love
with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was somehow related,
that did not signify. But she was in love with somebody else, and would
not have him, which made him very angry, as they say, and you know,
ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when he is angry.
Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have him. But,
as I was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for
a long while, and--Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a
sound, ma'amselle?'

'It was only the wind,' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of your
story.'

'As I was saying--O, where was I?--as I was saying--she was very
melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the
terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would have
done your heart good to hear her. That is--I don't mean good, but it
would have made you cry too, as they tell me.'

'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.'

'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what is
to come I never heard till to-day. This happened a great many years ago,
when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady--they called her
Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in great
passions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could not
make her listen to him--what does he do, but leave the castle, and never
comes near it for a long time! but it was all one to her; she was just
as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter!
ma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that lamp, see how blue it burns!'
She looked fearfully round the chamber. 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily,
'why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your
story, I am weary.'

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice.
'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it
might be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning of
October; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for that, too, is
the latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for certain, because
they did not tell me for certain themselves. However, it was at the
latter end of the year, this grand lady walked out of the castle into
the woods below, as she had often done before, all alone, only her maid
was with her. The wind blew cold, and strewed the leaves about, and
whistled dismally among those great old chesnut trees, that we passed,
ma'amselle, as we came to the castle--for Benedetto shewed me the
trees as he was talking--the wind blew cold, and her woman would have
persuaded her to return: but all would not do, for she was fond of
walking in the woods, at evening time, and, if the leaves were falling
about her, so much the better.

'Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she
did not return: ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came, and no
lady! Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident had befallen
her, and they went out to seek her. They searched all night long, but
could not find her, or any trace of her; and, from that day to this,
ma'amselle, she has never been heard of.'

'Is this true, Annette?' said Emily, in much surprise.

'True, ma'am!' said Annette, with a look of horror, 'yes, it is true,
indeed. But they do say,' she added, lowering her voice, 'they do say,
that the Signora has been seen, several times since, walking in the
woods and about the castle in the night: several of the old servants,
who remained here some time after, declare they saw her; and, since
then, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have happened to be
in the castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward, could tell such things,
they say, if he would.'

'How contradictory is this, Annette!' said Emily, 'you say nothing has
been since known of her, and yet she has been seen!'

'But all this was told me for a great secret,' rejoined Annette, without
noticing the remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not hurt either
me or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again.' Emily remained
silent, and Annette repeated her last sentence.

'You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,' replied Emily, 'and let
me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never mention
what you have just told me to any other person. Signor Montoni, as
you say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what inquiries were made
concerning the lady?'

'O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the Signor laid claim to the
castle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, the
judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could not
take possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, if,
after all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good as
dead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own. But the
story went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very strange,
ma'amselle, that I shall not tell them.'

'That is stranger still, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, and rousing
herself from her reverie. 'But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwards
seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?'

'Speak--speak to her!' cried Annette, with a look of terror; 'no, to be
sure.'

'And why not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further.

'Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!'

'But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they had
approached, and spoken to it?' 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell. How can you
ask such shocking questions? But nobody ever saw it come in, or go out
of the castle; and it was in one place now, and then the next minute in
quite another part of the castle; and then it never spoke, and, if it
was alive, what should it do in the castle if it never spoke? Several
parts of the castle have never been gone into since, they say, for that
very reason.'

'What, because it never spoke?' said Emily, trying to laugh away the
fears that began to steal upon her.--'No, ma'amselle, no;' replied
Annette, rather angrily 'but because something has been seen there. They
say, too, there is an old chapel adjoining the west side of the castle,
where, any time at midnight, you may hear such groans!--it makes one
shudder to think of them!--and strange sights have been seen there--'

'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,' said Emily.

'Silly tales, ma'amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about this,
if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter's night
that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to keep old
Carlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her afterwards to the
Signor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina was sitting with
them in the little hall, says Carlo, "I wish we had some of those figs
to roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and I
am loath to fetch them; do, Caterina," says he, "for you are young and
nimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them;
they lie," says he, "in such a corner of the store-room, at the end of
the north-gallery; here, take the lamp," says he, "and mind, as you go
up the great stair-case, that the wind, through the roof, does not blow
it out." So, with that, Caterina took the lamp--Hush! ma'amselle, I
surely heard a noise!'

Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened
attentively; but every thing was still, and Annette proceeded:

'Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we passed,
ma'am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she went with the lamp
in her hand, thinking of nothing at all--There, again!' cried Annette
suddenly--'I heard it again!--it was not fancy, ma'amselle!'

'Hush!' said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to sit
quite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall. It came
repeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowly
opened.--It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady wanted
her. Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not immediately
overcome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scolded
Caterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was also terrified lest
what she had told had been overheard.--Emily, whose mind was deeply
impressed by the chief circumstance of Annette's relation, was unwilling
to be left alone, in the present state of her spirits; but, to avoid
offending Madame Montoni, and betraying her own weakness, she struggled
to overcome the illusions of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night.

When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of
Signora Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wild
and solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and the
power of a man, to whom, only a few preceding months, she was an entire
stranger; who had already exercised an usurped authority over her, and
whose character she now regarded, with a degree of terror, apparently
justified by the fears of others. She knew, that he had invention equal
to the conception and talents to the execution of any project, and
she greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to oppose the
perpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She had long
observed the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been witness
to the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received from her husband.
To these circumstances, which conspired to give her just cause for
alarm, were now added those thousand nameless terrors, which exist only
in active imaginations, and which set reason and examination equally at
defiance.

Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her
departure from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had said
to dissuade her from venturing on the journey. His fears had often since
appeared to her prophetic--now they seemed confirmed. Her heart, as
it gave her back the image of Valancourt, mourned in vain regret, but
reason soon came with a consolation which, though feeble at first,
acquired vigour from reflection. She considered, that, whatever might be
her sufferings, she had withheld from involving him in misfortune, and
that, whatever her future sorrows could be, she was, at least, free from
self-reproach.

Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along the
corridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had long
been extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the dying embers,
till a loud gust, that swept through the corridor, and shook the doors
and casements, alarmed her, for its violence had moved the chair she had
placed as a fastening, and the door, leading to the private stair-case
stood half open. Her curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She
took the lamp to the top of the steps, and stood hesitating whether to
go down; but again the profound stillness and the gloom of the place
awed her, and, determining to enquire further, when day-light might
assist the search, she closed the door, and placed against it a stronger
guard.

She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table; but
its gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; for,
by its uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes flit past her
curtains and glide into the remote obscurity of her chamber.--The castle
clock struck one before she closed her eyes to sleep.

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

completion: Next thing Emily knows, she's being woken up by her maid, Annette, in the middle of the night. The whole crew is leaving for Udolpho--except that crew doesn't include Count Morano. Emily has no clue what's going on, but she goes along with it. The travelers begin to cross the Appenines. And hey, you guessed it. It's time for Emily to muse on the greatness of nature and the likelihood that bandits are going to pop out from behind trees. After about a day of travel, Emily catches a glimpse of an intimidating-looking castle. Emily meets old Carlo, who keeps the castle in his master's absence. He seems like a pretty cool guy. Em tries to ask Montoni why they picked up and left, but he's keeping his lips zipped. No word on what's up with the canceled wedding, either. So Annette shows Emily to her room in the castle, almost getting her lost along the way in the creepy castle. Emily catches a glimpse of a picture veiled in black silk on the way to her room. She tells Annette to unveil it, and Annette says, essentially, "No way, no how." In her room, Em is trying to get the lay of the land. She finds an open door leading to a secret passage. Oh joy of joys, the door to the secret passage won't shut. Guess everyone will have 24/7 access to Em's room, then. Because things aren't scary enough, the ditzy Annette starts telling Emily about the former owner of the castle. That would be Signora Laurentini. She was in love with someone else whom she couldn't marry, so she wouldn't marry Montoni. Montoni wanted to marry her to get access to the sweet castle and all of her wealth. Anyway, Signora Laurentini took off for a walk in the woods one day and never came back. Montoni got the castle, after all, since he was the next heir. Suspicious, much? The ladies have gotten themselves into a tizzy telling scary stories. They hear a spooky knocking sound on the wall and freak out. It's just the servant of the castle, Caterina. Both servants leave Em to hit the hay, totally terrified by now.