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.

 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.

