But Henri was often silent and
abstracted, and sometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity
round the gloomy apartment; while the Count gradually ceased to
converse, and sat either lost in thought, or reading a volume of
Tacitus, which he had brought to beguile the tediousness of the night. CHAPTER IX

Give thy thoughts no tongue. SHAKESPEARE


The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose
early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count’s
closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened
by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to
learn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to
observe the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count,
whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count,
then smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with
levity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so
closely, that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, “Well,
my friend, press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me
request also, that you will hereafter be silent upon anything you may
think extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you,
that I am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not
assisted me to discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night
you must excuse my reserve.”

“But where is Henri?” said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment
at this denial. “He is well in his own apartment,” replied the Count. “You will not
question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.”

“Certainly not,” said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, “since it would be
displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my
discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me
to suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system,
and are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.”

“Let us talk no more upon this subject,” said the Count; “you may be
assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me
towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and my
present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the
sincerity of my friendship.”

“I will not doubt either,” said the Baron, “though you must allow me to
express my surprise, at this silence.”

“To me I will allow it,” replied the Count, “but I earnestly entreat
that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as everything
remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.”

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on
general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count
met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries
by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,
while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the
north chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return
from them in safety. Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From
his countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was
often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the
eager enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an
attempt. In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,
and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and
of reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred
there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him
of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask if
he had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look
became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he
smiled, and said, “My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to
infect your good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you
to expect a ghost in every dark room. But believe me,” added he, with a
profound sigh, “the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or
sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.” He paused, and
fell into a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, “We will say no
more on this subject.”

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she
was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she
had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of
his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment,
whence Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what
rapidity a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their
information from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and
whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of
Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle. Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,
concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash
and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an
evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts. Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of
a virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should
provoke a good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one,
since he could claim the protection of a higher Power, of Him, who can
command the wicked, and will protect the innocent. “The guilty cannot claim that protection!” said sister Agnes, “let the
Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is
he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!—all earthly innocence is
but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,
and to what a horrible depth may we fall! Oh!—”

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled
Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,
after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her
countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,

“You are young—you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any
great crime!—But you have passions in your heart,—scorpions; they sleep
now—beware how you awaken them!—they will sting you, even unto death!”

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they
were delivered, could not suppress her tears. “Ah! is it so?” exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its
sternness—“so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed. Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,” she added, while
her eyes resumed their wild expression, “no gentleness,—no peace, no
hope! I knew them all once—my eyes could weep—but now they burn, for
now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!—I lament no more!”

“Rather let us repent, and pray,” said another nun. “We are taught to
hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hope
for all who repent!”

“Who repent and turn to the true faith,” observed sister Frances.