Montoni’s anger and disappointment soon became unimportant compared with the dangers that were closing in around him. His crimes had grown too serious for the Venetian government to ignore any longer. Although the Senate had once tolerated him because they feared his influence and hoped to use his support when necessary, his recent acts had gone far beyond what they could accept.
A large force was preparing to march toward Udolpho and destroy his power completely.
However, before the army received orders to begin the attack, a young officer requested a private meeting with the minister in charge of the expedition. He had two reasons for wanting the mission: he wanted revenge for a personal injury Montoni had caused him, and he hoped to gain honor through the success of the operation.
The officer explained his plan carefully.
“Udolpho will not be easily taken by a direct attack,” he said. “The castle is too strong, and Montoni has improved its defenses with the skill of an experienced commander. A large army approaching the fortress will be discovered long before it arrives.”
He continued:
“It would not be honorable for Venice to spend months using a great part of its military power against a small group of criminals. We should combine strategy with force. If possible, we should draw Montoni and his men outside the walls and attack them there. If that cannot be done, we should secretly approach the castle with a smaller force and take advantage of the carelessness or betrayal of some of his followers.”
The minister listened carefully and approved the plan. The young officer was given command of the troops he needed.
His first actions were based entirely on secrecy and preparation.
Near Udolpho, he waited patiently until he had gained the support of several of Montoni’s own soldiers. These men were eager to escape their master’s harsh rule and receive forgiveness from the Senate. Through them, the officer discovered the number of troops inside the castle and learned that Montoni’s forces had greatly increased after his recent victories.
The final part of the plan was soon completed.
The officer returned with his soldiers, carrying the secret password and other assistance provided by their allies inside the fortress. One group entered and suddenly attacked Montoni and his officers in their rooms, while another group engaged the guards in a brief struggle outside.
Before Montoni’s men could organize a defense, the entire garrison was forced to surrender.
Among those captured with Montoni was Orsino, the murderer who had joined him when he first arrived at Udolpho. Count Morano had revealed Orsino’s hiding place to the Venetian Senate after his failed attempt to take Emily away.
In fact, one of the main reasons for the expedition had been to capture this dangerous man, who had killed a member of the Senate. Because of this success, Morano was immediately released, even though Montoni’s secret accusations had caused political suspicion against him.
The entire operation was completed so quickly and quietly that it attracted little attention. It was not even recorded in the public histories of the time.
Emily, who remained in Languedoc, knew nothing of Montoni’s defeat or the humiliation of the man who had once controlled her fate.
Her own thoughts were still filled with sorrow.
Count De Villefort did everything kindness and wisdom could suggest to ease her suffering. Sometimes he allowed her to remain alone when she needed privacy. At other times, he brought her into friendly gatherings and protected her from the sharp questions and judgmental comments of the Countess.
He often invited Emily to travel with him and his daughter Blanche.
During these journeys, he spoke only about subjects that suited Emily’s feelings and interests, but he did so naturally, without making it obvious that he was trying to distract her. Little by little, he hoped to draw her mind away from her grief and awaken new feelings of happiness.
To Emily, Count De Villefort became like a wise and caring father figure. She developed a gentle affection for him, and her friendship with Blanche grew warmer every day. Blanche lacked the brilliance and sophistication of some people Emily had known, but her kindness and sincerity made her dear to Emily like a beloved sister.
For a long time, Emily could not bring herself to think about the story old Dorothée had promised to tell her. Her heart was still too deeply occupied by thoughts of Valancourt.
At last, however, Dorothée reminded her of the promise, and Emily asked her to come to her room that night.
Even then, Emily’s mind was filled with painful thoughts, and when Dorothée knocked on her door shortly after midnight, Emily was almost surprised that she had actually arrived.
“I have come at last, young lady,” Dorothée said. “I do not know what has made my old limbs tremble so much tonight. Twice on my way here I thought I was going to fall.”
Emily helped her sit down.
“Please calm yourself before you begin,” Emily said. “You seem deeply troubled.”
“Ah, that is exactly what has frightened me,” Dorothée replied. “On my way here, I passed the room where my dear mistress died. Everything was so silent and gloomy that, for a moment, I almost thought I saw her lying there as she appeared on her deathbed.”
Emily moved closer, eager to hear more.
“It was about twenty years ago,” Dorothée began, “when the Marchioness first came to the château as a bride. I remember it as clearly as yesterday. She entered the great hall where all the servants had gathered to welcome her, and my lord the Marquis looked so happy.”
She paused.
“Who could have imagined what would happen later?”
Dorothée continued.
“My lady Marchioness was about your age then, ma’amselle, and I often thought she looked very much like you. My lord kept a grand household in those days. There were celebrations, guests, and entertainments such as this château has never seen again.”
She smiled faintly.
“I was young then too. I remember dancing with Philip the butler in a pink dress with yellow ribbons. I even wore a special cap decorated with ribbons. It suited me very well, and the Marquis noticed me.”
Her smile faded.
“He was a kind gentleman then. Who would have thought he would become so different?”
“But Dorothée,” Emily interrupted gently, “you were telling me about the Marchioness.”
“Oh yes, ma’amselle. I always felt there was sadness hidden behind her sweet expression. Soon after the marriage, I once saw her crying alone in her room. When she noticed me, she quickly wiped away her tears and tried to smile.”
“I was afraid to ask what was wrong. But later, when I saw her crying again, I asked her. She seemed unhappy that I had noticed, so I never questioned her again.”
“After some time, I learned the reason. Her father had forced her to marry the Marquis because of his wealth. There was another nobleman, perhaps a chevalier, whom she loved more, and who loved her deeply in return. She suffered because she had been separated from him.”
Emily listened closely.
“My lady always hid her sadness from the Marquis. I saw her many times appear calm and gentle whenever he entered the room, even after she had been crying moments before.”
“But then my lord changed. He became gloomy, suspicious, and sometimes cruel toward her. It hurt her greatly, because she never complained. She tried constantly to please him and make him happy.”
“But he remained cold. He answered her harshly, and when she realized her efforts were useless, she would return to her room and cry. I often heard her through the doorway, but I rarely dared to enter.”
“I sometimes thought my lord was jealous. My lady was admired by many people, but she was far too honorable to deserve suspicion.”
“There was one chevalier who often visited the château. I always thought he was the perfect person for my lady. He was polite, brave, and graceful in everything he did.”
“Whenever he visited, I noticed that the Marquis became darker and more troubled afterward, while my lady became unusually quiet. I often wondered whether he was the man she had truly wished to marry.”
“What was that chevalier’s name?” Emily asked.
Dorothée shook her head.
“No, ma’amselle. I will not tell you. Nothing good could come from spreading such a name.”
She lowered her voice.
“I once heard from someone who has since died that the Marchioness was not legally the Marquis’s wife. They said she had secretly married the gentleman she loved before her father forced her into another marriage, and afterward she was too afraid to admit the truth.”
“But that seems unlikely, and I never believed it completely.”
Dorothée continued.
“Still, the Marquis was always in the worst mood after that chevalier visited. Eventually his cruel treatment made my lady completely miserable.”
“He stopped receiving guests and forced her to live almost entirely alone. I was always with her and saw everything she suffered, but she never spoke badly of him.”
“After nearly a year of this, my lady became ill. I believed her sorrow had caused it, but I fear the truth was worse.”
“Worse?” Emily whispered. “How could it be worse?”
“I fear there were strange things, madam. But I will only tell you what happened.”
Dorothée stopped suddenly.
“My lord the Marquis—”
“Hush, Dorothée,” Emily said. “What was that sound?”
Both women became silent.
From the darkness outside came music of extraordinary beauty.
Emily’s face changed.
“I have heard that voice before.”
Dorothée looked frightened.
“I have heard it many times, and always at this same hour. If spirits can bring music with them, then that must be the music of one.”
As the sound grew closer, Emily recognized it. It was the same mysterious music she had heard on the night of her father’s death.
Whether the memory of that painful event affected her, or whether fear and superstition overcame her, Emily became so overwhelmed that she nearly fainted.
“I believe I told you once, madam,” Dorothée whispered, “that I first heard this music after my lady died.”
“Listen,” Emily said. “It is coming again. Let us open the window.”
They opened it.
Soon the music slowly faded into the distance until silence returned. It seemed to disappear among the woods, whose dark shapes could barely be seen beneath the clear night sky.
Emily stood by the window, staring into the darkness below and up at the stars above.
Dorothée continued her story softly.
“I was telling you about the first time I heard that music. It happened soon after my lady’s death. I had stayed awake later than usual, thinking constantly about my poor mistress and the terrible sight of her death.”
“The château was completely silent. I was alone in a room far from the other servants. The loneliness frightened me, and I wished desperately to hear some ordinary sound of life.”
“But everyone had gone to bed. I sat there thinking until I was almost afraid to look around the room.”
“My poor lady’s dying face kept appearing in my thoughts. Once or twice, I almost believed I saw her standing before me.”
“Then suddenly I heard the sweetest music.”
“It seemed to come directly from my window. I could not move from my chair. But when I thought it might be my dear lady’s voice, tears filled my eyes.”
“I had heard her sing many times when she was alive. She had a beautiful voice. She would sit in her room during summer evenings, playing her lute and singing sad songs until darkness came.”
“I often listened outside the room for an hour at a time. Her music touched the heart.”
“When I first heard the mysterious music after her death, I believed it was hers. I have thought the same every time I have heard it since.”
“Sometimes months pass before it returns, but eventually it always comes again.”
“It is very strange,” Emily said, “that no one has discovered who creates this music.”
“If it were a living person, someone would have found them long ago,” Dorothée replied. “But who would have the courage to follow a spirit? And even if they did, what would it matter? Spirits can appear anywhere and take any form.”
“Please continue your story of the Marchioness,” Emily said. “Tell me how she died.”
“I will, ma’am,” Dorothée answered. “But should we close the window?”
“No,” Emily replied. “The cool air comforts me. I enjoy hearing the wind move through the woods and seeing this dark landscape.”
Dorothée continued.
“My lord the Marquis became more and more troubled, and my lady became weaker every day. Then one night she suddenly became very ill.”
“I was called to her room, and I was shocked by her appearance. Her face had changed terribly. She looked at me with sadness and asked me to call the Marquis because she had something important to say to him.”
“After some time, he came. He seemed deeply affected, but he said very little.”
“She told him she knew she was dying and wished to speak with him alone. I left the room, but I will never forget the expression on his face.”
“When I returned, I reminded him that a doctor should be called. I thought grief had made him forget. But my lady said it was already too late.”
“Then suddenly her illness became much worse. She suffered terrible pain, and I will never forget her cry.”
“The Marquis immediately sent someone for the doctor. He walked around the room and through the château in complete despair.”
“I stayed beside my dear lady and tried to comfort her.”
“Later, she asked for the Marquis again. When he entered, I prepared to leave, but she begged me to stay.”
Dorothée’s voice trembled.
“I will never forget what happened next. The Marquis was almost broken with sorrow. My lady behaved with such kindness and forgiveness that he must have realized how wrong he had been.”
“He seemed overwhelmed by guilt over the way he had treated her. My lady was so moved by his suffering that she fainted.”
“We helped him leave the room. He went to the library, threw himself on the floor, and refused to listen to anyone.”
“When my lady recovered, she asked for him. But then she said she could not bear to see his grief and wished only to die peacefully.”
“She died in my arms, ma’amselle. After all her suffering, she passed away as calmly as a child.”
Dorothée stopped and wiped away her tears. Emily cried with her, deeply moved by the Marchioness’s patience and goodness.
“When the doctor arrived,” Dorothée continued, “it was too late. He looked shocked when he saw her, because soon after her death a terrible darkness spread across her face.”
“He sent everyone away and questioned me about what had happened. He asked many strange questions and shook his head at my answers.”
“I understood what he suspected, but I kept my thoughts to myself. I only told my husband, and he warned me to remain silent.”
“Some servants suspected the same things, and rumors spread throughout the area. But no one dared to speak openly.”
“When the Marquis learned that my lady had died, he locked himself away. He would see no one except the doctor, who sometimes stayed with him alone for hours.”
“After that, the doctor never spoke with me about my lady again.”
“When she was buried in the convent church nearby, all of my lord’s servants followed the funeral. Not a single person remained dry-eyed, because she had helped so many poor people.”
“The Marquis became the saddest man I had ever seen. Sometimes his grief became so violent that we feared he had lost his mind.”
“He soon left the château and returned to the army. Not long afterward, all the servants except my husband and me were dismissed.”
“He never came back here, although it was such a beautiful place. He never even finished the grand rooms he had begun building on the western side.”
“The château remained almost abandoned until Count De Villefort arrived.”
“The death of the Marchioness was truly strange,” Emily said.
“Yes, madam,” Dorothée replied. “I have told you everything I witnessed. You can understand what I think, but I cannot say more because I would not wish to offend my lord the Count.”
“You are right,” Emily answered. “Where did the Marquis die?”
“I believe somewhere in northern France,” Dorothée said. “I was glad when I heard Count De Villefort was coming here. This place had been empty and sorrowful for many years.”
“My husband and I even left the château for a nearby cottage because strange noises were sometimes heard after my lady’s death.”
“Now I have told you everything, and all my thoughts. But you promised never to reveal a word of this.”
“I promised,” Emily said. “And I will keep my word. What you have told me has interested me more deeply than you can imagine.”
“I only wish you would tell me the name of the chevalier.”
But Dorothée firmly refused.
Instead, she returned to another subject.
“There is another portrait of the Marchioness,” she said. “It hangs in one of the rooms that have remained closed. I have heard that it was painted before her marriage, and it resembles you much more than the miniature does.”
Emily immediately wished to see it.
Dorothée hesitated.
“I do not like opening those rooms.”
“But Count De Villefort mentioned that he intended to have them opened,” Emily reminded her.
Dorothée considered this carefully.
“At least I would feel less afraid if I entered them with you first,” she admitted.
At last, she promised to show Emily the portrait.
The night was already very late, and Emily was too deeply affected by the story to wish to enter those rooms immediately. She asked Dorothée to return the following night with the keys and guide her there.
She wanted to see not only the portrait, but also the chamber where the Marchioness had died, which Dorothée said remained unchanged, with the bed and furniture still arranged as they had been when the body was removed.
The thought of seeing such a place matched Emily’s sorrowful state of mind.
Joyful surroundings could not comfort her. Instead, she found herself drawn toward sadness and reflection. She mourned the loss of what she had once believed about Valancourt, although no virtue of her own could have prevented the disappointment she suffered.
Dorothée promised to return the next night and left Emily to rest.
But Emily remained by the window for a long time, thinking about the tragic fate of the Marchioness and waiting anxiously for the mysterious music to return.
The night stayed silent.
Only the whisper of the woods moving in the wind broke the stillness, followed by the distant sound of the convent bell striking one o’clock.
Emily finally left the window and sat beside her bed, lost in melancholy thoughts.
Suddenly, the silence was broken.
It was not music this time.
It was a strange and unusual sound that seemed to come from the room beside hers, or perhaps from somewhere below.
The terrible story Dorothée had told her, together with the mysterious events said to have happened in the château, had affected Emily’s imagination so deeply that for a moment she surrendered to fear.
The sound did not return.
At last, Emily went to bed, hoping that sleep would allow her to forget the tragic tale she had heard.