The Mysteries of Udolpho

spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As she walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and, perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she brought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it, and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow staircase that wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to what it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so immediately with her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, she wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door, therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination, perceived, that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on the other. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure remedied the defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this remote room alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and which could not be perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished to entreat of Madame Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with her all night, but was deterred by an apprehension of betraying what would be thought childish fears, and by an unwillingness to increase the apt terrors of Annette.

Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in the corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper, sent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the good girl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast was over, Annette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood into a blaze, drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and said⁠—“Did you ever hear, ma’amselle, of the strange accident, that made the Signor lord of this castle?”

“What wonderful story have you now to tell?” said Emily, concealing the curiosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard on that subject.

“I have heard all about it, ma’amselle,” said Annette, looking round the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; “Benedetto told it me as we travelled together: says he, ‘Annette, you don’t know about this castle here, that we are going to?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you know?’ But, ma’amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would not tell it you for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they say, that the Signor does not like to have it talked of.”

“If you promised to keep this secret,” said Emily, “you do right not to mention it.”

Annette paused a moment, and then said, “O, but to you, ma’amselle, to you I may tell it safely, I know.”

Emily smiled, “I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself, Annette.”

Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded⁠—“This castle, you must know, ma’amselle, is very old, and very strong, and has stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni’s always, nor his father’s; no; but, by some law or other, it was to come to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.”

“What lady?” said Emily.

“I am not come to that yet,” replied Annette, “it is the lady I am going to tell you about, ma’amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady lived in the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you may suppose, ma’amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and was in love with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was somehow related, that did not signify. But she was in love with somebody else, and would not have him, which made him very angry, as they say, and you know, ma’amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when he is angry. Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have him. But, as I was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for a long while, and⁠—Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a sound, ma’amselle?”

“It was only the wind,” said Emily, “but do come to the end of your story.”

“As I was saying⁠—O, where was I?⁠—as I was saying⁠—she was very melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would have done your heart good to hear her. That is⁠—I don’t mean good, but it would have made you cry too, as they tell me.”

“Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.”

“All in good time, ma’am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what is to come I never heard till today. This happened a great many years ago, when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady⁠—they called her Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in great passions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could not make her listen to him⁠—what does he do, but leave the castle, and never comes near it for a long time! but it was all one to her; she was just as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter! ma’amselle,” cried Annette, “look at that lamp, see how blue it burns!” She looked fearfully round the chamber. “Ridiculous girl!” said Emily, “why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your story, I am weary.”

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice. “It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it might be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning of October; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for that, too, is the latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for certain, because they did not tell me for certain themselves. However, it was at