Chapter: CHAPTER III



  This is no mortal business, nor no sound
 That the earth owes!
     SHAKESPEARE

We now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointment
were soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emily
had awakened. His depredations having exceeded their usual limits, and
reached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercial
senate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance would
permit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, should
complete the suppression of his power and the correction of his
outrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of
receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly
by resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by
the hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, who
directed the enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation of
Udolpho rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after
some tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shewn how capable he
was of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be derived
from the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of troops, as
that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho without his
knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the republic to have a
large part of its regular force employed, for such a time as the siege
of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a handful of banditti. The
object of the expedition, he thought, might be accomplished much more
safely and speedily by mingling contrivance with force. It was possible
to meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack them
then; or, by approaching the fortress, with the secrecy, consistent with
the march of smaller bodies of troops, to take advantage either of the
treachery, or negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedly
upon the whole even in the castle of Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it,
received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His
first efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the
neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance
of several of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that he addressed,
unwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure their own
pardon from the senate. He learned also the number of Montoni's troops,
and that it had been much increased, since his late successes. The
conclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having returned with his
party, who received the watch-word and other assistance from their
friends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised by one division,
who had been directed to their apartment, while the other maintained the
slight combat, which preceded the surrender of the whole garrison. Among
the persons, seized with Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had
joined him on his first arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had
been made known to the senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful
attempt of the latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for
the purpose of capturing this man, by whom one of the senate had been
murdered, that the expedition was undertaken, and its success was so
acceptable to them, that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding
the political suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation,
had excited against him. The celerity and ease, with which this whole
transaction was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or
even from obtaining a place in any of the published records of that
time; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the
defeat and signal humiliation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason had
yet been able to controul. Count De Villefort, who sincerely attempted
whatever benevolence could suggest for softening them, sometimes
allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her into friendly
parties, and constantly protected her, as much as possible, from the
shrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the Countess. He often
invited her to make excursions, with him and his daughter, during which
he conversed entirely on questions, suitable to her taste, without
appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured gradually to withdraw her
from the subject of her grief, and to awake other interests in her mind.
Emily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and protector of
her youth, soon felt for him the tender affection of a daughter, and
her heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose
kindness and simplicity compensated for the want of more brilliant
qualities. It was long before she could sufficiently abstract her
mind from Valancourt to listen to the story, promised by old Dorothee,
concerning which her curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but
Dorothee, at length, reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that she
would come, that night, to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her
curiosity, and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised
her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. 'I am come, at
last, lady,' said she; 'I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake
so, to-night. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I
was a-coming.' Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would
compose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had
brought her thither. 'Alas,' said Dorothee, 'it is thinking of that, I
believe, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed
the chamber, where my dear lady died, and every thing was so still and
gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared upon
her death-bed.'

Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothee, who went on. 'It is about
twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau. O!
I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall, where
we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my lord the
Marquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!--But, as I was saying,
ma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet looks, did not
look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he said it was all
fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My lady
Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I have often thought, very
like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open house, for a long time,
and gave such entertainments and there were such gay doings as have
never been in the chateau since. I was younger, ma'amselle, then, than
I am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I remember I danced with
Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, not
such as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons all about it. It
was very becoming truly;--my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he was a
good-natured gentleman then--who would have thought that he!'--

'But the Marchioness, Dorothee,' said Emily, 'you was telling me of
her.'

'O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart,
and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber;
but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did
not dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her
crying, I did, and she seemed displeased;--so I said no more. I found
out, some time after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commanded
her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another
nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was very
fond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she never
told me so. My lady always tried to conceal her tears from the Marquis,
for I have often seen her, after she has been so sorrowful, look so calm
and sweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of a sudden,
grew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my lady. This
afflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and she
used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good
humour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be
stubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all
in vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her
in the anti-room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her.
I used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be sure my lady was
greatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion. Among the
many chevaliers, that visited at the chateau, there was one, that I
always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yet
so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or
said. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis
was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head,
that this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never could
learn for certain.'

'What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?' said Emily.

'Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amselle, for evil may come of
it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness
was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been
privately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was
afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man; but
this seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I was
saying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the
chevalier I spoke of had been at the chateau, and, at last, his ill
treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any
visitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I was
her constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never
complained.

'After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill,
and I thought her long fretting had made her so,--but, alas! I fear it
was worse than that.'

'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that be possible?'

'I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will
only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis--'

'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?' said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard,
on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

'I have surely heard that voice before!' said Emily, at length.

'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,' said Dorothee, solemnly,
'and, if spirits ever bring music--that is surely the music of one!'

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had
formerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was
the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that
she was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much
affected, that she had nearly fainted.

'I think I once told you, madam,' said Dorothee, 'that I first heard
this music, soon after my lady's death! I well remember the night!'--
'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'let us open the window, and
listen.'

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance,
and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the woods,
whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every other
feature of the scene was involved in the night-shade, which, however,
allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe
upon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,
enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her
narrative.

'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that
music. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had sat up
later than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking
a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately
witnessed. The chateau was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a
good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournful
things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for I
felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened often, wishing to
hear a sound in the chateau, for you know, ma'amselle, when one can hear
people moving, one does not so much mind, about one's fears. But all the
servants were gone to bed, and I sat, thinking and thinking, till I was
almost afraid to look round the room, and my poor lady's countenance
often came to my mind, such as I had seen her when she was dying, and,
once or twice, I almost thought I saw her before me,--when suddenly I
heard such sweet music! It seemed just at my window, and I shall never
forget what I felt. I had not power to move from my chair, but then,
when I thought it was my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes.
I had often heard her sing, in her life-time, and to be sure she had a
very fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, when she
has sat in her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute such sad
songs, and singing so. O! it went to one's heart! I have listened in
the anti-chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sit
playing, with the window open, when it was summer time, till it was
quite dark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed
to know what hour it was. But, as I said, madam,' continued Dorothee,
'when first I heard the music, that came just now, I thought it was my
late lady's, and I have often thought so again, when I have heard it, as
I have done at intervals, ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone
by, but still it has returned.'

'It is extraordinary,' observed Emily, 'that no person has yet
discovered the musician.'

'Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have been
discovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, and
if they had, what good could it do?--for spirits, YOU KNOW, ma'am, can
take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and, the
next perhaps, in a quite different place!'

'Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,' said Emily, 'and acquaint
me with the manner of her death.'

'I will, ma'am,' said Dorothee, 'but shall we leave the window?'

'This cool air refreshes me,' replied Emily, 'and I love to hear it
creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You was
speaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.'

'Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and
my lady grew worse and worse, till, one night, she was taken very ill,
indeed. I was called up, and, when I came to her bedside, I was shocked
to see her countenance--it was so changed! She looked piteously up at
me, and desired I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come,
and tell him she had something particular to say to him. At last, he
came, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he said
very little. My lady told him she felt herself to be dying, and wished
to speak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I shall never
forget his look as I went.'

'When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a
doctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my lady
said it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so, seemed
to think light of her disorder--till she was seized with such terrible
pains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent off a man
and horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all over the
chateau in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady, and did
what I could to ease her sufferings. She had intervals of ease, and in
one of these she sent for my lord again; when he came, I was going, but
she desired I would not leave her. O! I shall never forget what a
scene passed--I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was almost
distracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took such
pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to enter
his head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be sure
he did seem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her,
and this affected her so much, that she fainted away.

'We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and
threw himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no
reason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquired
for him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, and
desired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma'amselle,
and she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of her
disorder was passed.'

Dorothee paused, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much
affected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek
patience, with which she had suffered.

'When the doctor came,' resumed Dorothee, 'alas! he came too late;
he appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a
frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the
attendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the
Marchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had been
seized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to mean
more, than he chose to say. But I understood him too well. However, I
kept my remarks to myself, and only told them to my husband, who bade
me hold my tongue. Some of the other servants, however, suspected what
I did, and strange reports were whispered about the neighbourhood, but
nobody dared to make any stir about them. When my lord heard that my
lady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but the doctor,
who used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and,
after that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. When
she was buried in the church of the convent, at a little distance
yonder, if the moon was up you might see the towers here, ma'amselle,
all my lord's vassals followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye
among them, for she had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, the
Marquis, I never saw any body so melancholy as he was afterwards, and
sometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost thought
he had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the chateau, but joined
his regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my husband and
I, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I never saw him
after, for he would not return to the chateau, though it is such a fine
place, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on the west
side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever since, till my
lord the Count came here.'

'The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,' said Emily, who
was anxious to know more than she dared to ask.

'Yes, madam,' replied Dorothee, 'it was extraordinary; I have told you
all I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say more,
because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord the
Count.'

'You are very right,' said Emily;--'where did the Marquis die?'--'In the
north of France, I believe, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee. 'I was very
glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a
sad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises,
sometimes, after my lady's death, that, as I told you before, my husband
and I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have told you
all this sad history, and all my thoughts, and you have promised, you
know, never to give the least hint about it.'--'I have,' said Emily,
'and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;--what you have told
has interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I could
prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought so
deserving of the Marchioness.'

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to the
notice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness. 'There is another
picture of her,' added she, 'hanging in a room of the suite, which was
shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and is
much more like you than the miniature.' When Emily expressed a strong
desire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did not like to open
those rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the other
day of ordering them to be opened; of which Dorothee seemed to consider
much, and then she owned, that she should feel less, if she went into
them with Emily first, than otherwise, and at length promised to shew
the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the
narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish
to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee would return
on the following night, when they were not likely to be observed, and
conduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the portrait, she felt
a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which the Marchioness had
died, and which Dorothee had said remained, with the bed and furniture,
just as when the corpse was removed for interment. The solemn emotions,
which the expectation of viewing such a scene had awakened, were
in unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by severe
disappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this
depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her melancholy
inclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which no virtue of
her own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason could
make her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him, whom she had
once esteemed and loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of
the chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,
however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of
the Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of the
music. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken, except by
the murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and then
by the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She now withdrew
from the window, and, as she sat at her bed-side, indulging melancholy
reveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness was
suddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon sounds, that
seemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from one
below. The terrible catastrophe, that had been related to her, together
with the mysterious circumstances, said to have since occurred in the
chateau, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk, for a
moment, under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did not
return, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story she had
heard.

 Hoo boy, Montoni was mad when Em flew the coop a couple chapters back. Let's catch up on his situation. It's not looking too good for the Udolpho crew. A powerful army is about to receive orders from Venice to march on the castle. A clever young officer is planning to partially take Udolpho by force while sneaking some soldiers in the castle walls. Spoiler alert: the plan totally works. Montoni and his criminal bud Orsino are taken prisoner. You better bet Count Morano is behind this whole shebang. He tipped off officials that Orsino was hiding out at Udolpho. Meanwhile, Em has no clue what's going on back at Udolpho. That's right, we're back to Em's story. Finally, Dorothee pays her a visit to fill her in on the late Marchioness's story. When the Marchioness first arrived at Chateau-le-Blanc, many years ago, she was beautiful but sad. Good old Dorothee was her personal servant, so she got all the good dirt on her mistress. Turns out she wanted to marry some mystery dude, but her dad made her marry the Marquis. Dorothee won't tell Em who the mystery dude is, though. The Marquis was a rude guy who didn't treat the Marchioness with much respect. In fact, Dorothee says, he was kind of a jerk. After some time at the chateau, the Marchioness fell suddenly and horribly ill. Dorothee remembers that when the Marchioness died of her illness, her face had turned entirely black. The Marquis didn't stick around to mourn his wife. He took off for the north of France, where rumor has it he died. Em has a hankering to see where the Marchioness died, so she makes Dorothee promise to come back the following night to show off her late lady's chambers. Em definitely has a taste for the macabre.

