CHAPTER IX

Thus on the chill Lapponian’s dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,
And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
Torrents are hurl’d, green hills emerge, and lo,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown’d;
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant’s heart o’erflow. BEATTIE


Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico could
only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the
apartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom
they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his
countrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of
Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except
that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining
corridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had
prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her
present repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not
wish to leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty
concerning Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any
sacrifice of her own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to
make her escape probable. On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being
admitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a
soldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him on
the following night. He was not deceived in his hope; for, under
pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison,
though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel the
real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with
the prisoner a very short one. Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised
to accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after
several hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having then
uttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitated
in trembling expectation. “The Chevalier would not entrust me with his
name, Signora,” replied Ludovico; “but, when I just mentioned yours, he
seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as I
expected.” “Does he then remember me?” she exclaimed. “O! it is Mons. Valancourt,” said Annette, and looked impatiently at
Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: “Yes, lady,
the Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very
great regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then
enquired how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you
ordered me to speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but
the second I did; and then he went off into his ecstasies again. I was
afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door.”

“But how does he look, Ludovico?” interrupted Emily: “is he not
melancholy and ill with this long confinement?”—“Why, as to melancholy,
I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemed in
the finest spirits I ever saw anybody in, in all my life. His
countenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was very
well; but I did not ask him.” “Did he send me no message?” said Emily. “O yes, Signora, and something besides,” replied Ludovico, who searched
his pockets. “Surely, I have not lost it,” added he. “The Chevalier
said, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was
going to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered the
room, but not before he had give me this.” Ludovico then drew forth a
miniature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand,
and perceived to be a portrait of herself—the very picture, which her
mother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallée. Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico
proceeded—“‘Tell your lady,’ said the Chevalier, as he gave me the
picture, ‘that this has been my companion, and only solace in all my
misfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I
sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I
would not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that
I now part with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her
hands. Tell her—’ Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the
Chevalier said no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an
interview for him with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had
of prevailing with the guard to assist me, he said, that was not,
perhaps, of so much consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to
bring back your answer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to
do then. So this, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed.”

“How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?” said Emily: “but,
indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalier
again?” “That is uncertain, Signora,” replied he. “It depends upon who
stands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, from
whom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber.”

“I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,” resumed Emily, “how very much
interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so,
tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments he
wished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer—” She paused. “But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?” said Ludovico. “Most
certainly I will,” replied Emily. “But when, Signora, and where?” “That
must depend upon circumstances,” returned Emily. “The place, and the
hour, must be regulated by his opportunities.”

“As to the place, mademoiselle,” said Annette, “there is no other place
in the castle, besides this corridor, where _we_ can see him in safety,
you know; and, as for the hour,—it must be when all the Signors are
asleep, if that ever happens!” “You may mention these circumstances to
the Chevalier, Ludovico,” said she, checking the flippancy of Annette,
“and leave them to his judgment and opportunity. Tell him, my heart is
unchanged. But, above all, let him see you again as soon as possible;
and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very
anxiously look for you.” Having then wished her good night, Ludovico
descended the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep,
for joy now rendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni and his castle had all vanished from her mind, like the
frightful vision of a necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in
fairy scenes of unfading happiness:

As when, beneath the beam
Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
Or by some flood, all silver’d with the gleam,
The soft embodied Fays thro’ airy portals stream.