“What Marchioness?” exclaimed Agnes, “I know but of one—the Marchioness
de Villeroi.”

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected
mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of
the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to
explain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn
Emily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,
repeated her entreaties. “Bring me that casket, sister,” said Agnes; “I will show her to you;
yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you
surely are her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but
among near relations.”

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to
unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the
exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late
father’s papers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it
earnestly for some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of
deep despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When
she had finished, she returned the miniature to Emily. “Keep it,” said
she, “I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have
frequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this
day, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do
not remove the casket—there is another picture I would show.”

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have
withdrawn her. “Agnes is still disordered,” said she, “you observe how
she wanders. In these moods she says anything, and does not scruple, as
you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.”

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and
production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the
subject of it. The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature. “Here,” said Agnes,
as she offered it to Emily, “learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;
look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance
between what I was, and what I am.”

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to
fall—it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho—the lady, who had
disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been
suspected of having caused to be murdered. In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between
them, which no longer existed. “Why do you look so sternly on me?” said Agnes, mistaking the nature of
Emily’s emotion. “I have seen this face before,” said Emily, at length; “was it really
your resemblance?”

“You may well ask that question,” replied the nun,—“but it was once
esteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt
has made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept. Sister!” added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand
to Emily, who shuddered at its touch—“Sister! beware of the first
indulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not
checked then, is rapid—their force is uncontrollable—they lead us we
know not whither—they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for
which whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!—Such may be the
force of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and
sears up every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend,
it leads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and
to conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it
leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had
suspended—not annihilated,—to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and
conscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new world
around us—we gaze in astonishment, and horror—but the deed is
committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can undo
it—and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are
riches—grandeur—health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the
health of the soul;—and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,
despair—to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since I
knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing
pangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair—but these pangs
were ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since
endured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge—but it was
transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,
sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,
from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy
they who have never been taught the art to govern them!”

“Alas! unhappy!” said the abbess, “and ill-informed of our holy
religion!” Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still
examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its
strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. “This face is familiar
to me,” said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet
fearing to discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho. “You are mistaken,” replied Agnes, “you certainly never saw that
picture before.”

“No,” replied Emily, “but I have seen one extremely like it.”
“Impossible,” said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini. “It was in the castle of Udolpho,” continued Emily, looking steadfastly
at her. “Of Udolpho!” exclaimed Laurentini, “of Udolpho in Italy!” “The same,”
replied Emily. “You know me then,” said Laurentini, “and you are the daughter of the
Marchioness.” Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. “I
am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,” said she; “and the lady
you name is an utter stranger to me.”

“At least you believe so,” rejoined Laurentini. Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise. “The family likeness, that you bear her,” said the nun. “The
Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at
the time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of
her father. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!”

Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on
the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more
than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it
was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini
insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them,
and begged, that she would explain them further. “Do not urge me on that subject,” said the nun, “it is to me a terrible
one!