The Mysteries of Udolpho

'No,' said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity. 'What, ma'amselle, don't you remember Ludovico--who rowed the

Cavaliero's gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And

who used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the

Black-a-moors, too; and Charly--Charly--magne, yes, that was the name,

all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moon-light nights at

Venice? O! I have listened to him!'--

'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,' said Emily; 'for it seems his

verses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep

the secret; never let him know it.' 'Ah--ma'amselle!--how can one keep such a secret as that?' 'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.'

'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask--how did you sleep in this

dreary old chamber last night?'--'As well as usual.'--'Did you hear

no noises?'--'None.'--'Nor see anything?'--'Nothing.'--'Well, that is

surprising!'--'Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these

questions.' 'O, ma'amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have heard

about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.'

'If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell

me what you know, without hurting your conscience.'

'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many

years.' 'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,' said Emily, endeavouring

to laugh away her apprehensions; 'for I left the door open, last night,

and found it fastened this morning.' Annette turned pale, and said not a word. 'Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the

morning, before I rose?' 'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don't know: shall

I go and ask, ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastily towards the

corridor. 'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have

heard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads.'

'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am; besides, I am sure my lady

wants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am.' She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily's reply, whose heart,

lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her

to smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for,

though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it,

when apparent in other persons.

Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear

with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the

room as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delight

in happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of moderate

sorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect;

when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers were

felt no longer. Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furniture

of the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was tranquil enough

to be pleased with the thought of sketching the sublime scenes, beheld

from her windows; but she suddenly checked this pleasure, remembering

how often she had soothed herself by the intention of obtaining

amusement of this kind, and had been prevented by some new circumstance

of misfortune. 'How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,' said she, 'and, because

Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness? Alas! what

is it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if he comes at

all?--and that he will come--it were weakness to doubt.'