Would that I could blot it from my memory!” She sighed deeply,
and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had
discovered her name? “By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature
bears a striking resemblance,” replied Emily. “You have been at Udolpho then!” said the nun, with great emotion. “Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy—scenes of
happiness—of suffering—and of horror!”

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a
chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she
looked upon the nun—and recollected her late words—that “years of
prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.” She
was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of
delirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,
she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected
behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily
was still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to
ask the questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them
in broken sentences. “Your sudden departure from Udolpho”—said she. Laurentini groaned. “The reports that followed it,” continued Emily—“The west chamber—the
mournful veil—the object it conceals!—when murders are committed—”

The nun shrieked. “What! there again!” said she, endeavouring to raise
herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round the
room—“Come from the grave! What! Blood—blood too!—There was no
blood—thou canst not say it!—Nay, do not smile,—do not smile so
piteously!”

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and
Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried
from the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess. The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now
assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted
countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering
further, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. They
received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then
leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived
Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible
surmises, and perplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that
she was unable to converse, and would have left the convent
immediately, had she not wished to know whether Laurentini would
survive the late attack. After waiting some time, she was informed,
that, the convulsions having ceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving,
and Emily and Blanche were departing, when the abbess appeared, who,
drawing the former aside, said she had something of consequence to say
to her, but, as it was late, she would not detain her then, and
requested to see her on the following day. Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the
Lady Blanche towards the château, on the way to which the deep gloom of
the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced;
for the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of
fear, though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too
much engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be
affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served
to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length
recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in the
dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was
impossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded
part of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all
apprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du
Pont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she had
seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much
earnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont
joined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the
château, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him
for an acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his
visit to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the
village, begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the
château. The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made
M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,
they went to the château, where the kindness of the Count and the
sprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that
overhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the
French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall and
commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was
something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,
which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a
melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of
constitution, or temper. The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of
politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle
against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and
abstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in
a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed
him, almost fancied she beheld her late father. The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her
apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to
her fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have
discovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by
Montoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,
excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,
which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de
Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily’s birth,
occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different
nature. The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to
be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose
it had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true
story, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited
as to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi
bore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed
between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his
request to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found
among his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily,
that he might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness
was attached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi;
but that he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not
suffer herself to believe, for a moment.