While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of
receiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly
by resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by
the hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, who
directed the enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation of
Udolpho rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after
some tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shown how capable he
was of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be
derived from the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of
troops, as that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho
without his knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the
republic to have a large part of its regular force employed, for such a
time as the siege of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a
handful of banditti. The object of the expedition, he thought, might be
accomplished much more safely and speedily by mingling contrivance with
force. It was possible to meet Montoni and his party, without their
walls, and to attack them then; or, by approaching the fortress, with
the secrecy, consistent with the march of smaller bodies of troops, to
take advantage either of the treachery, or negligence of some of his
party, and to rush unexpectedly upon the whole even in the castle of
Udolpho. This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it,
received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His first
efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the
neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance
of several of the _condottieri_, of whom he found none, that he
addressed, unwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure
their own pardon from the senate. He learned also the number of
Montoni’s troops, and that it had been much increased, since his late
successes. The conclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having
returned with his party, who received the watch-word and other
assistance from their friends within, Montoni and his officers were
surprised by one division, who had been directed to their apartment,
while the other maintained the slight combat, which preceded the
surrender of the whole garrison. Among the persons, seized with
Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had joined him on his first
arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had been made known to the
senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful attempt of the latter to
carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for the purpose of capturing
this man, by whom one of the senate had been murdered, that the
expedition was undertaken, and its success was so acceptable to them,
that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding the political
suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation, had excited
against him. The celerity and ease, with which this whole transaction
was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or even from
obtaining a place in any of the published records of that time; so that
Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the defeat and signal
humiliation of her late persecutor. Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason
had yet been able to control. Count De Villefort, who sincerely
attempted whatever benevolence could suggest for softening them,
sometimes allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her
into friendly parties, and constantly protected her, as much as
possible, from the shrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the
Countess. He often invited her to make excursions, with him and his
daughter, during which he conversed entirely on questions, suitable to
her taste, without appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured
gradually to withdraw her from the subject of her grief, and to awake
other interests in her mind. Emily, to whom he appeared as the
enlightened friend and protector of her youth, soon felt for him the
tender affection of a daughter, and her heart expanded to her young
friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose kindness and simplicity
compensated for the want of more brilliant qualities. It was long
before she could sufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt to
listen to the story, promised by old Dorothée, concerning which her
curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but Dorothée, at length,
reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that she would come, that night,
to her chamber. Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her
curiosity, and Dorothée’s tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised
her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. “I am come, at
last, lady,” said she; “I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake
so, tonight. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I was
a-coming.” Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would
compose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had
brought her thither. “Alas,” said Dorothée, “it is thinking of that, I
believe, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed the
chamber, where my dear lady died, and everything was so still and
gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared upon
her death-bed.”

Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothée, who went on. “It is about
twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the château. O! I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall,
where we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my
lord the Marquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!—But, as I was
saying, ma’amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet
looks, did not look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he
said it was all fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for
all that. My lady Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I have
often thought, very like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open
house, for a long time, and gave such entertainments and there were
such gay doings as have never been in the château since. I was younger,
ma’amselle, then, than I am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I
remember I danced with Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow
ribbons, and a coif, not such as they wear now, but plaited high, with
ribbons all about it. It was very becoming truly;—my lord, the Marquis,
noticed me. Ah! he was a good-natured gentleman then—who would have
thought that he—”

“But the Marchioness, Dorothée,” said Emily, “you were telling me of
her.”

“O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart,
and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber;
but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did
not dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her
crying, I did, and she seemed displeased;—so I said no more. I found
out, some time after, how it was.