Chapter: CHAPTER XII



     Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
 In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly,
 With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy.
     GRAY

The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing
she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested the
Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau. 'And you
know, my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with such
a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read with,
since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only.'

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter
yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their
danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily
expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with
attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased with
her, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short an
acquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also given
him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious as
to those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he
determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent of
St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded with
his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau. On this
subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady Blanche's
welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or to befriend
the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably interested.

On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but
Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the
room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a very
old friend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; an invitation, which Du
Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near Emily; and,
though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that she would
ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to attempt, at
present, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend
over the grounds belonging to the chateau, as much delighted with the
surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had
wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of the
monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to go.

'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from a
convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure
I feel in wandering here, at liberty,--and in seeing the sky and the
fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.' Emily,
smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed, that
she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life.

'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche; 'but you do not know to
what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they will
appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.'

When they returned to the chateau, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to
her favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancient
chambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by
observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of their
old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with those
of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque.
She was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who attended them,
whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, and
who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazed
with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her.

While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with
surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fields
and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La Voisin,
one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in her way
from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be the
chateau, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he had dropped
some remarkable hints.

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for
some time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father
had betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other
circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The
music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La
Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous of
knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned at
midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, 'that music is still heard, but
the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; though
there are some people, who can guess.'

'Indeed!' said Emily, 'then why do they not pursue the enquiry?'

'Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made--but who can pursue a
spirit?'

Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to be
led away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion; yet,
in spite of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity, on
this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now
enquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard.

'Ever since the death of my lady, madam,' replied Dorothee.

'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said Blanche, between jesting
and seriousness.

'I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,' continued
Dorothee, 'and never before then. But that is nothing to some things I
could tell of.'

'Do, pray, tell them, then,' said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest than
in jest. 'I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette, and
sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances, which
they themselves had witnessed!'

'You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the chateau,
and go and live in a cottage,' said Dorothee. 'Never!' replied Blanche
with impatience.

'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'--Dorothee checked herself,
hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity
of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to
escape her, and she pressed the old house-keeper to proceed with her
account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was
evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had
already betrayed herself.

'I perceive,' said Emily, smiling, 'that all old mansions are haunted; I
am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left it,
I have heard almost all of them explained.'

Blanche was silent; Dorothee looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt
herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she
chose to acknowledge. Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had
witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence,
the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in the MS. papers,
which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command of her father; and
she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost as much as at
the horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothee to explain
the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that
terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding
day, to see the suite of rooms beyond. 'Dear young lady,' said the
housekeeper, 'I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have
never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me
to see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again.'

'Certainly I will not,' replied Blanche, 'if that is really your
objection.'

'Alas! it is,' said the old woman: 'we all loved her well, and I shall
always grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since she
died; but I remember every thing, that happened then, as if it was but
yesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite
from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.'
She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to
Emily, 'this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my
mind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like
her, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came to
the chateau!'

'And was she not gay, afterwards?' said Blanche.

Dorothee shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly
expressive of the interest she now felt. 'Let us sit down in this
window,' said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the
gallery: 'and pray, Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell us
something more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into the
glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, which
you say often pass over it.'

'No, my lady,' replied Dorothee; 'if you knew as much as I do, you would
not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often wish I
could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my dear lady
on her death-bed,--her very look,--and remember all she said--it was a
terrible scene!'

'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily with emotion.

'Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?' replied Dorothee.

To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily,
observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and
endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some object
in the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and Monsieur Du Pont,
appearing, they went down to join them.

When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her to
the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully
to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to
him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received
her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes
allowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversation
the Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be,
or whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whom
he had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his
manner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion,
which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of
the good; for to the Count's worth she had been inclined to yield her
confidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him.

Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had
received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the convent,
she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at the
chateau, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an
appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished to
see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her
father's grave, she consented to remain a few days at the chateau.

To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival
in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a boarder;
she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt, whom she
merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not where the
latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his brother's seat
in Gascony.

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to
the cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in
approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St. Aubert,
though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing sadness in
indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La Voisin was
still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the tranquil
evening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his cottage,
watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the grass before him,
and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, encouraging their
sports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was much pleased to
see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not lost one of his
family, since her departure.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said the old man, 'we all live merrily together
still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be
found in Languedoc, than ours.'

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and,
after half an hour's conversation with La Voisin and his family, she
left the cottage.

During these the first days of her stay at Chateau-le-Blanc, she was
often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at
times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which
disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as
soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort would
permit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the
Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopeless
affection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though he
secretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing so
should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he
but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the
following day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he
could return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could
not encourage his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues he
possessed, and for the services she had received from him; and it was
not without tender emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him
depart for his family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with
a countenance so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count
more warmly in his cause than before.

In a few days, Emily also left the chateau, but not before the Count and
Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon; and
she was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she had
formerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of regard.
The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many melancholy
recollections, but with these were mingled others, that inspired
gratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had pursued her,
since she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet possessed; and,
though she once more wept over her father's grave, with tears of tender
affection, her grief was softened from its former acuteness.

Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter from
her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived
in France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs as
he had undertaken to conduct during her absence, especially as to the
period for which La Vallee had been let, whither it was her wish to
return, if it should appear, that her income would permit her to do
so. The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal, as she expected,
expressing neither concern for the evils she suffered, nor pleasure,
that she was now removed from them; nor did he allow the opportunity
to pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom he
affected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of vehemently
declaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now, felt
himself to be inferior. On Emily's pecuniary concerns, he was not very
explicit; he informed her, however, that the term, for which La Vallee
had been engaged, was nearly expired; but, without inviting her to his
own house, added, that her circumstances would by no means allow her to
reside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, in
the convent of St. Claire.

To her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father's servant,
he gave no answer. In the postscript to his letter, Monsieur Quesnel
mentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had placed
the chief of his personal property, as being likely to arrange his
affairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors, and that Emily
would recover much more of her fortune, than she had formerly reason to
expect. The letter also inclosed to Emily an order upon a merchant at
Narbonne, for a small sum of money.

The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered
to enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful
province, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone, except
that anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, as the time
approached, when it was possible that she might receive an answer to her
letter.

 Blanche and Em get to be friends lickety-split, since they're both into exploring castles and the beauty of nature. They try to get old Dorothee to spill about the former mistress of the castle, the Marchioness de Villeroi, but the servant is totally tight-lipped. Dorothee does mention that Em is the spitting image of the Marchioness, though. Hmmm. Du Pont is still as in love with Em as ever, so Em decides to take a little break from the Chateau-le-Blanc. She promises to come back soon, though. Em's uncle, Monsieur Quesnel, writes to her, but he doesn't seem to care that she's escaped from the evil Montoni. He also doesn't know if she can get her property back from him. Wah-wah.

