Cheerful objects rather added to,
than removed this depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her
melancholy inclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which
no virtue of her own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort
of reason could make her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him,
whom she had once esteemed and loved. Dorothée promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of
the chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,
however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of
the Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of
the music. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken,
except by the murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the
breeze, and then by the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She
now withdrew from the window, and, as she sat at her bedside, indulging
melancholy reveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the
stillness was suddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon
sounds, that seemed to come either from the room adjoining her own, or
from one below. The terrible catastrophe that had been related to her,
together with the mysterious circumstances said to have since occurred
in the château, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk for
a moment under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did
not return, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story
she had heard. CHAPTER IV

Now it is the time of night,
That, the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way path to glide. SHAKESPEARE


On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothée came to
Emily’s chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been
particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along
the north side of the château, forming part of the old building; and,
as Emily’s room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent
of the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose
observations Dorothée was anxious to avoid, since it might excite
enquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She,
therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they
ventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone
to bed. It was nearly one, before the château was perfectly still, or
Dorothée thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her
spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past
events, and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these
had occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily
too was affected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of
fear. From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had
thrown them, they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothée, at first, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much
with infirmity and alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her
arm, to support her feeble steps. They had to descend the great staircase, and, after passing over a wide
extent of the château, to ascend another, which led to the suite of
rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the open
corridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers of
the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from thence,
descending the chief staircase, they crossed the hall itself. Proceeding through the servants hall, where the dying embers of a wood
fire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was surrounded
by chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of the
back staircase. Old Dorothée here paused, and looked around; “Let us
listen,” said she, “if anything is stirring; Ma’amselle, do you hear
any voice?” “None,” said Emily, “there certainly is no person up in the
château, besides ourselves.”—“No, ma’amselle,” said Dorothée, “but I
have never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know, my
fears are not wonderful.”—“What do you know?” said Emily.—“O,
ma’amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door on
the left is the one we must open.”

They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the staircase, Dorothée
applied the key to the lock. “Ah,” said she, as she endeavoured to turn
it, “so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear it
will not move.” Emily was more successful, and they presently entered a
spacious and ancient chamber. “Alas!” exclaimed Dorothée, as she entered, “the last time I passed
through this door—I followed my poor lady’s corpse!”

Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky and
solemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on
through a long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than
the rest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence. “Let us rest here awhile, madam,” said Dorothée faintly, “we are going
into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah,
ma’amselle! why did you persuade me to come?”

Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment was
furnished, and begged Dorothée would sit down, and try to compose her
spirits. “How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to my
mind!” said Dorothée; “it seems as if it was but yesterday since all
that sad affair happened!”

“Hark! what noise is that?” said Emily. Dorothée, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, and
they listened—but, everything remaining still, the old woman spoke
again upon the subject of her sorrow. “This saloon, ma’amselle, was in
my lady’s time the finest apartment in the château, and it was fitted
up according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you can
now hardly see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of the
best—ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady’s time!—all
this grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion of
some in the Louvre there, except those large glasses, and they came
from some outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. How the colours are
faded already!—since I saw it last!”

“I understood, that was twenty years ago,” observed Emily. “Thereabout, madam,” said Dorothée, “and well remembered, but all the
time between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to be
greatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, or
other, but I have forgot the name.”

Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, by
verses in the Provençal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that it
exhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances.