The Mysteries of Udolpho

witnessed in the north apartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself of fears for Ludovico’s safety, though her reason represented these to be absurd. The necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with which Dorothée had entrusted her, and which must have been mentioned, with the late occurrence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the north apartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her apprehension; and she tried only to sooth Annette, who held, that Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed; and who was much less affected by Emily’s consolatory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothée, who often, as she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to heaven.

XLIV

Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!
Whose soft dominion o’er this castle sways,
And all the widely-silent places round,
Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays
What never yet was sung in mortal lays.

Thomson

The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and prepared for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothée, remembering what she had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the other servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour, for which the whole household waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leaving which, his Lord delivered to him a sword.

“It has seen service in mortal quarrels,” said the Count, jocosely, “you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the château.”

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. “You shall be obeyed, my Lord,” said he; “I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace of the château after this night.”

They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count’s guests awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and Dorothée, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who then led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the château. Having reached the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back, and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the staircase, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with as much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothée, who had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the door opened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just time to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, and Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the courageous adventurer.

Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count had now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had been surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the night.

“There are several chambers beyond these, your Excellenza,” said Ludovico, pointing to a door, “and in one of them is a bed, they say. I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie down.”

“Good;” said the Count; “let us go on. You see these rooms show nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engaged since I came to the château, that I have not looked into them till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, tomorrow, to throw open these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have them taken down, and this antique furniture removed.”

“Dear sir!” said Henri, “here is an armchair so massy with gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then anything else.”

“Yes,” said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, “there is a history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.⁠—Let us pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is many years since I was in them. But where is the bedroom you speak of, Ludovico?⁠—these are only antechambers to the great drawing-room. I remember them in their splendour!”

“The bed, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “they told me, was in a room that opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.”

“O, here is the saloon,” said the Count, as they entered the spacious apartment, in which Emily and Dorothée had rested. He here stood for a moment, surveying the relics of faded grandeur, which it exhibited⁠—the sumptuous tapestry⁠—the long and low sofas of velvet, with frames heavily carved and gilded⁠—the floor inlaid with small squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of very rich tapestry-work⁠—the casements of painted glass, and the large Venetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period France could not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment. These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this had been the stateroom of the château, and here the Marchioness had held the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials. If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many of them vanished even from the earth, that once had passed over these polished mirrors, what a