Chapter: CHAPTER VII



  Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;
 Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
 Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
 Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
     SHAKESPEARE

The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and,
anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the
outer door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obliged
to knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice was
heard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bed-room, and
that Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep
sleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leaving
the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a gray autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave only
a feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascended
from the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which were now
varied with many a mellow tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but the
waves were yet violently agitated, and their course was traced by long
lines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels,
near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of
the hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued his way through the
woods, sunk in deep thought.

Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the
brow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind was
now not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and Valancourt
was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught
herself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantly
reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her
esteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his parting
look and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last farewel;
and, some accidental associations now recalling these circumstances
to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears to the
recollection.

Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps,
and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour,
as they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray
round the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists, that
came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which was
in harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up to
the remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, and
she abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the
watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, which
she paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely
cut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length,
recognizing the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling
anxiety the following lines, entitled

SHIPWRECK

 'Til solemn midnight!  On this lonely steep,
 Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall,
 Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,
 I rest; and view below the desert deep,
 As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light
 Gleams on the wave.  Viewless, the winds of night
 With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
 And sullen roar the surges, far below.
 In the still pauses of the gust I hear
 The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
 And oft among the clouds their forms appear.
 But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,
 And in the distant ray what glimmering sail
 Bends to the storm?--Now sinks the note of fear!
 Ah! wretched mariners!--no more shall day
 Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!

From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower;
that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such
an one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately,
since it had not long been light, and without light it was impossible
these letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he
might be yet in the gardens.

As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called
up a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits;
but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the
tower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the chateau. As she
passed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near the
tower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment of
agitation, she was inclined to believe, that she had then heard and seen
Valancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her error.
On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person,
walking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her mind
engaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this to
be Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, before she
could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she then
knew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on finding her
walking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her on
her love of solitude. But he soon perceived this to be more a subject of
concern than of light laughter, and, changing his manner, affectionately
expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing regret; who,
though she acknowledged the justness of all he said, could not restrain
her tears, while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic.
Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from his friend, the
Advocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to him,
respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with friendly
zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of establishing her claim
to them; while she felt, that the estates could now contribute little to
the happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had no longer an interest.

When they returned to the chateau, Emily retired to her apartment, and
Count De Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was still
fastened, but, being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his
calls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, and
the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length
began to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror
of an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore,
left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it
open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the chateau.

To the Count's enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they
replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north side
of the chateau, since the preceding night.

'He sleeps soundly then,' said the Count, 'and is at such a distance
from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the
chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and
follow me.'

The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all the
household were assembled, that the Count's orders were obeyed. In the
mean time, Dorothee was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery,
leading from the great stair-case into the last anti-room of the saloon,
and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared probable,
that Ludovico might be easily awakened by an attempt to open it.
Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as ineffectual
at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now, seriously
interested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon the door
with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and with-held
the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so dark and
close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to be only of
larch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forests
of larch. The beauty of its polished hue and of its delicate carvings
determined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to that leading
from the back stair-case, which being, at length, forced, he entered the
first anti-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of
his servants, the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry on the stairs
and landing-place.

All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and,
having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which,
still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bed-room, and
entered.

The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico,
for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his
uncertainty was not soon terminated, since the shutters being all
closed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished in
it.

The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to
do so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry
occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured
thus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left to
finish the adventure.

Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, they
perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in
which Ludovico had been sitting;--for he sat there no longer, nor could
any where be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the
apartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, that
he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet appearing,
he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment and scarcely trusting
his senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced to examine
whether he was there asleep. No person, however, was in it, and he
proceeded to the oriel, where every thing remained as on the preceding
night, but Ludovico was no where to be found.

The Count now checked his amazement, considering, that Ludovico might
have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, which
their lonely desolation and the recollected reports, concerning them,
had inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturally
have sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared they had
not seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found fastened,
with the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for him to
have passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite were
found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys also
within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad
had escaped through the casements, next examined them, but such as
opened wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be carefully
secured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige appeared of
any person having attempted to pass them; neither was it probable, that
Ludovico would have incurred the risque of breaking his neck, by leaping
from a window, when he might have walked safely through a door.

The Count's amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more
to examine the bed-room, where was no appearance of disorder, except
that occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had stood
a small table, and on this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the book he had
been reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still remained.
At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some fragments of
provision and wood.

Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve,
and, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his
manner, that expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must have
quitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could not
believe, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, if
there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he should retreat
through it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the smallest
vestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced. In the
rooms every thing remained as much in order as if he had just walked out
by the common way.

The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the
bed-chamber, saloon and one of the anti-rooms were hung, that he
might discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after
a laborious search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the
apartments, having secured the door of the last anti-chamber, the key of
which he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that strict
search should be made for Ludovico not only in the chateau, but in the
neighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they remained
there in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever was the
subject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and his
manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the topic, which
now agitated the Count's family with wonder and alarm, was introduced.

On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened
in all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions,
though it was difficult to discover what connection there could possibly
be between the two subjects, or to account for this effect otherwise
than by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by exciting
awe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility, which
rendered it more liable to the influence of superstition in general. It
is, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and his adherents
became more bigoted to their own systems than before, while the terrors
of the Count's servants increased to an excess, that occasioned many of
them to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest remained only till
others could be procured to supply their places.

The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and, after
several days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave herself up to
despair, and the other inhabitants of the chateau to amazement.

Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of the
late Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she fancied
had existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly impressed
by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loss of
Ludovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both her
esteem and gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the quiet
retirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received with real
sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by the Count,
for whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration of a
daughter, and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, she, at length, mentioned
the appearance, which they had witnessed in the chamber of the deceased
Marchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled at such a
relation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in the
distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with
seriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that
this occurrence should rest in silence. 'Whatever may be the cause and
the import of these extraordinary occurrences,' added the Count, 'time
only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in
the chateau, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the
fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I will
myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing,
till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.'

The Count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also a promise of
silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of
an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him the
particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi's death, with some of which
he appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was evidently
surprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative, the Count
retired to his closet, where he remained alone for several hours;
and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner surprised and
alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts.

On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count's
guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and
Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by
the arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine
upon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared
in his countenance, when he met her, told that he brought back the
same ardour of passion, which had formerly banished him from
Chateau-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with
pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that
seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for
his friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner,
and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the languor
of despondency.

On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring
the purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which was
received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the pain
she might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteem
and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and
excited her tenderest compassion; and, being more sensible than ever
of the impropriety of remaining longer at the chateau, she immediately
sought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to
the convent.

'My dear Emily,' said he 'I observe, with extreme concern, the illusion
you are encouraging--an illusion common to young and sensible minds.
Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never
entirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit
of indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and discolour
your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me dissipate this
illusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger.'

Emily smiled mournfully, 'I know what you would say, my dear sir,' said
she, 'and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never
know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its
tranquillity--if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.'

'I know, that you feel all this,' replied the Count; 'and I know, also,
that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in
solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time
will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this
subject, and to sympathize in your sufferings,' added the Count, with
an air of solemnity, 'for I have known what it is to love, and to lament
the object of my love. Yes,' continued he, while his eyes filled with
tears, 'I have suffered!--but those times have passed away--long passed!
and I can now look back upon them without emotion.'

'My dear sir,' said Emily, timidly, 'what mean those tears?--they speak,
I fear, another language--they plead for me.'

'They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,' replied the Count,
drying them, 'I would have you superior to such weakness. These,
however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been
opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge
of madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an
indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must
certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might
be happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long
been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are
unexceptionable;--after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that
I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would
promote it. Do not weep, Emily,' continued the Count, taking her hand,
'there IS happiness reserved for you.'

He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, 'I do not
wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;
all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would
lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind to
be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to believe
it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes think
with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the state of
despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw
you.'

'Ah! my dear sir,' said Emily, while her tears still fell, 'do not
suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with
an expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own
heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every
other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.'

'Leave me to understand your heart,' replied the Count, with a faint
smile. 'If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in
other instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future
conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain
longer at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; but though
I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the claims of
friendship for your future visits.'

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily
thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received
from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but
one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some
future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself--If
Mons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.

The Count smiled at this condition. 'Be it so,' said he, 'meanwhile the
convent is so near the chateau, that my daughter and I shall often
visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another
visitor--will you forgive us?'

Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.

'Well,' rejoined the Count, 'I will pursue this subject no further, and
must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. You
will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged only
by a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable friend
Mons. Du Pont.'

Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure
to the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret; after
which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she should
return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening of the
following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart, while the
Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would sometimes
regard him with a more favourable eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement
of the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal
kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. A
report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had already
reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it
was the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was
requested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event. Emily
was guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly related a
few circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance, her auditors
almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by supernatural means.

'A belief had so long prevailed,' said a nun, who was called sister
Frances, 'that the chateau was haunted, that I was surprised, when I
heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor,
I fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that the
virtues of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment due
to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.'

'Of what crime, then, was he suspected?' said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a
boarder at the convent.

'Let us pray for his soul!' said a nun, who had till now sat in silent
attention. 'If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was
sufficient.'

There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of
delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle
repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.

'I dare not presume to say what was his crime,' replied sister Frances;
'but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting
the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the
death of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards
returned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it
from report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died,
that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.'

'But I can,' said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called
sister Agnes.

'You then,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, 'are possibly acquainted with
circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not,
and what was the crime imputed to him.'

'I am,' replied the nun; 'but who shall dare to scrutinize my
thoughts--who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge,
and to that judge he is gone!'

Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a
significant glance.

'I only requested your opinion,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; 'if
the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.'

'Displeasing!'--said the nun, with emphasis.--'We are idle talkers;
we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; DISPLEASING is a poor
word. I will go pray.' As she said this she rose from her seat, and with
a profound sigh quitted the room.

'What can be the meaning of this?' said Emily, when she was gone.

'It is nothing extraordinary,' replied sister Frances, 'she is often
thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at
times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?'

'Never,' said Emily. 'I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there was
the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it in
her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!'

'Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,' observed the
lady abbess, 'she has need of them.'

'Dear lady,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, 'what is
your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have
occurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I
shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the
punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?'

'We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,' said the abbess, with
an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, 'we must be cautious of
advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me
to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was
the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our
daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alluded
to the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware,
my children, of incurring so terrible a punishment--it is the purgatory
of this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to
such as live in the world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushed
to copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; her
heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!'

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and
she rose. 'Let us go, my children,' said she, 'and intercede for the
wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our
souls for the heaven, to which SHE is gone!'

Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and,
remembering her father, 'The heaven, to which HE, too, is gone!' said
she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and
the nuns to the chapel.

 When the Count goes to find Ludovico, he's vanished from the room. No one can figure out how that's possible, since the room was locked. After about a week, Ludovico is still missing and the mystery remains unsolved. Back to regular castle activity. Du Pont is still hanging around Emily like a lovesick puppy dog, but she's not remotely over Valancourt. Tough luck, buddy. Em goes to visit her old friends at the abbey. You know, the one she stayed at right after her dad's death. While Em is talking to the nuns about the mysterious circumstances of the Marchioness's death, a crazy nun named Agnes keeps piping up. The other nuns tell Em that Agnes is a bit wacky. She can't stop talking about sins and the purgatory of life.

