Chapter: CHAPTER VII



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.

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

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

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

'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What is it you do mean then?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Repeat them!' said a voice.

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

The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.

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

'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.

'We did,' said Bertolini.

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

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

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

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

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

'Never!' replied Montoni.

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

Montoni accepted the apology.

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

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

'Listen!' said a voice.

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

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

All the company rose from their chairs in confusion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

