The following night, at nearly the same hour as before, Dorothée came quietly to Emily’s room. She carried with her the keys to the rooms that had once belonged to the late Marchioness.
Those apartments were located along the northern side of the château, within the oldest part of the building. Emily’s room was on the southern side, so they had to cross a large portion of the castle and pass by the chambers of several members of the family.
Dorothée was anxious that no one should see them.
She feared that if anyone noticed their strange journey through the château at such an hour, questions would be asked, rumours would spread, and the Count would become displeased.
“Ma’amselle,” Dorothée whispered, “let us wait another half hour before we leave. We must be certain that every servant is asleep.”
Nearly one o’clock arrived before the château became completely silent. Only then did Dorothée believe it was safe to leave.
During the waiting time, the old woman’s emotions had grown stronger. Memories of the past filled her mind, and the thought of entering rooms she had not visited for so many years deeply affected her.
Emily was also moved, but her feelings were more solemn than fearful. She thought about the mystery surrounding the Marchioness and the sadness attached to those forgotten rooms.
At last, they broke the silence and left the chamber.
Dorothée carried the lamp at first, but her aged hand trembled so badly from fear and weakness that Emily took it from her.
“Allow me,” Emily said gently. “Lean on my arm. I will help you.”
Together, they descended the grand staircase. After crossing a wide part of the château, they reached another staircase that led to the rooms they sought.
They moved carefully along the open corridor surrounding the great hall. The doors of the Count’s apartments, the Countess’s rooms, and Lady Blanche’s chamber all opened onto this passage, and Dorothée was eager to avoid being seen.
From there, they went down the main staircase and crossed the great hall.
They continued through the servants’ hall, where the remains of a dying fire still glowed faintly on the hearth. The supper table stood nearby, surrounded by chairs that made their passage difficult.
Finally, they reached the bottom of the back staircase.
Dorothée stopped.
She looked around nervously.
“Let us listen,” she whispered. “Do you hear anything, ma’amselle? Any voice or movement?”
“Nothing,” Emily replied. “There is certainly no one awake in the château except us.”
“No, ma’amselle,” Dorothée answered. “But I have never been here at this hour before. After all that I know, perhaps my fears are not unreasonable.”
“What do you know?” Emily asked.
“Oh, ma’amselle, we have no time for that now. Let us continue. That door on the left is the one we must open.”
They went on. When they reached the top of the staircase, Dorothée inserted the key into the lock.
“Ah,” she murmured, struggling to turn it, “so many years have passed since this door was opened. I fear the lock may refuse to move.”
Emily tried herself, and the key turned easily.
Soon they entered a large, ancient room.
Dorothée stopped suddenly.
“Ah, my poor lady,” she whispered. “The last time I passed through this door, I was following her coffin.”
Emily was deeply affected by these words. The gloomy room, filled with shadows and silence, created a solemn feeling that made her heart heavy.
Without speaking, they continued through a long line of rooms until they reached one larger and more magnificent than the others.
Although time had destroyed much of its beauty, traces of its former grandeur remained.
“Let us rest here for a moment,” Dorothée said weakly.
“We are about to enter the chamber where my lady died. That door leads into it.”
She looked toward the door and trembled.
“Ah, ma’amselle, why did you persuade me to come?”
Emily quickly pulled forward one of the large armchairs.
“Sit down, Dorothée. Try to calm yourself.”
The old woman sank into the chair.
“How this place brings everything back to my mind,” she said sadly. “It feels as though it happened only yesterday.”
Suddenly Emily heard something.
“Listen! What was that sound?”
Dorothée rose halfway from her chair and looked around.
They remained silent.
Nothing moved.
After a moment, the old woman continued.
“This room, ma’amselle, was once the finest apartment in the entire château. My lady arranged it according to her own taste. All this magnificent furniture came from Paris.”
She looked around sadly.
“You can hardly see its beauty now because of the dust, and our lamp gives so little light. But in my lady’s time, this room was always bright and beautiful.”
“The furniture was made after the fashion of some rooms in the Louvre, except for those great mirrors. Those came from another country, as did that beautiful tapestry.”
She pointed toward the wall.
“Look how much the colours have faded since I last saw them.”
“I understood that was twenty years ago,” Emily said.
“About twenty years,” Dorothée replied. “And yet that time seems like nothing. That tapestry was greatly admired. It shows stories from some famous book, though I cannot remember the name.”
Emily rose and examined the tapestry more closely.
Beneath each scene were verses written in the Provençal language. She discovered that the pictures showed scenes from some of the most celebrated romances of ancient times.
Dorothée’s spirits slowly became calmer. She stood and unlocked the door leading into the Marchioness’s private chamber.
Emily entered.
It was a vast room covered with dark curtains and ancient decorations. The small lamp in her hand could not reveal the full size of the chamber.
Dorothée remained near the entrance. She sank into a chair and sighed deeply, almost unable to face the painful memories before her.
For some time, Emily could see nothing clearly.
Then, through the darkness, she noticed the bed where the Marchioness was said to have died.
She approached slowly.
The bed had a tall canopy of dark green silk. The curtains hung down almost to the floor, half opened, as though they had been left untouched for twenty years.
Over the entire bed lay a black velvet covering that reached the ground like a funeral cloth.
Emily shuddered.
She lifted the lamp and looked between the dark curtains. For a moment, she almost expected to see a human face staring back at her.
The memory of the terrifying scene at Udolpho, when she had discovered Madame Montoni dying in the turret room, returned suddenly to her mind.
She turned away, overcome with emotion.
At that moment, Dorothée reached the bed.
“Holy Virgin!” she cried. “I almost see my lady lying there upon that black cloth, just as I saw her the last time!”
Emily was shocked by her words and looked again.
But she saw only darkness.
Dorothée, however, was forced to hold onto the side of the bed. Soon tears began to fall, and after weeping for a while, she spoke.
“It was here that I sat on that terrible night. I held my lady’s hand. I heard her final words. I saw all her suffering.”
She touched the bed.
“She died here, in my arms.”
“Do not continue these painful memories,” Emily said softly. “Let us leave this place. But first, show me the portrait you mentioned, if it will not hurt you too much.”
“It hangs in the small room beside the bed,” Dorothée replied.
She opened a little door near the head of the bed, and Emily followed with the lamp.
Inside was the private closet of the Marchioness.
“There she is,” Dorothée said, pointing to a portrait.
“There is my dear lady herself. This is how she looked when she first came to the château.”
She looked at Emily.
“You see, ma’amselle, she was as young and beautiful as you are then. And yet her life was taken away so soon.”
Emily studied the portrait carefully.
It strongly resembled the miniature she had seen before, although the expressions were slightly different. Still, Emily thought she could recognize the same quiet sadness that had appeared in the miniature.
“Please stand beside the picture,” Dorothée requested. “Let me look at you together.”
Emily did so.
The old woman immediately exclaimed at the resemblance.
Emily also felt that she had seen someone who looked very much like the portrait, but she could not remember who.
The closet contained many reminders of the dead Marchioness.
A dress and several pieces of clothing lay over chairs, as though they had only recently been removed.
On the floor stood a pair of black satin slippers.
On the dressing table rested gloves and a long black veil, which Emily lifted carefully.
The fabric was falling apart with age.
“My lady’s hand placed it there,” Dorothée said. “It has never been moved since.”
Emily quickly put it down.
“I remember seeing her remove it,” Dorothée continued. “It was the night before her death. She had returned from a short walk in the gardens. She seemed refreshed.”
“I told her she looked much better. I remember the weak smile she gave me.”
The old woman’s eyes filled with tears.
“But neither she nor I knew that she would die that very night.”
After another moment of sorrow, Dorothée suddenly picked up the veil and placed it over Emily.
Emily shuddered as the old fabric surrounded her, falling all the way to her feet.
“Keep it on for only a moment,” Dorothée begged.
“I thought how much you would resemble my dear mistress wearing it.”
She looked at Emily sadly.
“May your life be happier than hers, ma’amselle.”
Emily quickly removed the veil and placed it back on the table.
Every object in the room seemed connected to the Marchioness.
Near a large painted glass window stood a table with a silver crucifix and an open prayer book.
Emily remembered Dorothée’s story about how the Marchioness used to play her lute beside this window.
Then she saw the instrument itself lying on the table.
It seemed as though the hand that had played it so often had only just left it there.
“This is such a sad and forgotten place,” Dorothée said.
“When my dear lady died, I had no heart to arrange the room again. My lord never entered these apartments afterward. They remain exactly as they were when my lady was taken away for burial.”
Emily continued looking at the lute.
It was a large Spanish instrument.
With hesitation, she picked it up and touched the strings.
The instrument was out of tune, but it produced a deep, powerful sound.
Dorothée immediately recognized it.
“This is the lute my lady loved so much!”
She stared at it sadly.
“The last time she played it was on the night she died.”
“I came as usual to help her prepare for bed. When I entered the chamber, I heard music coming from this window.”
“She was sitting there with the lute in her hands. I stepped quietly toward the door, which was slightly open, because the music was so beautiful, though it was filled with sadness.”
“I saw her looking upward. Tears were falling down her face as she sang a hymn.”
“Her voice trembled. Sometimes she stopped, wiped away her tears, and then continued even more softly.”
“I had often heard my lady sing, but never had I heard anything so moving.”
“She had been praying, I think, because the prayer book was open beside her.”
Dorothée looked around.
“Please, ma’amselle, let us leave this place. It breaks my heart.”
They returned to the main chamber.
Dorothée wished to look once more at the bed.
As they approached the open doorway leading into the other room, Emily noticed something in the dim light.
Something seemed to move across the room and disappear into the shadows.
Her emotions had already been deeply disturbed by everything she had seen. Otherwise, she might not have been so frightened.
She tried to hide her fear.
But Dorothée noticed the change in her face.
“Are you unwell, ma’amselle?”
“Let us go,” Emily whispered. “The air in these rooms feels oppressive.”
She attempted to leave.
But then she remembered she had to pass through the room where she had seen the strange movement.
Her fear increased.
Unable to continue, she sat down on the side of the bed.
Dorothée believed Emily was simply overcome by the sadness of the place.
She tried to comfort her.
Then, while they sat together, she began telling more details about the Marchioness’s final moments.
“A little before my lady died,” Dorothée said, “when her pain had eased, she called me to her.”
“She reached out her hand, and I sat right there, beside the bed.”
“I remember her expression. Death was already written on her face.”
“I can almost see her now.”
“There she lay, ma’amselle. Her face rested on that pillow.”
“The black covering was not on the bed then. It was placed there after her death, when her body was prepared.”
Emily looked toward the dark curtains.
The white edge of the pillow was visible above the black cloth.
Then her eyes moved across the velvet covering.
Suddenly, she thought she saw it move.
Without speaking, she seized Dorothée’s arm.
The old woman followed Emily’s terrified gaze.
Then she saw it too.
The black cloth slowly rose and fell.
“It is only the wind,” Dorothée said quickly.
“We left the doors open. See how the air moves the lamp.”
“It is only the wind.”
But before she finished speaking, the cloth moved more violently.
Emily stepped closer, determined to prove that her fear was caused only by the wind.
She looked between the curtains.
The cloth moved again.
Then, in the next moment, a human face slowly appeared above it.
Both women screamed.
They ran from the chamber as quickly as their trembling bodies allowed.
They left every door open behind them.
When they reached the staircase, Dorothée threw open a bedroom door where several female servants slept and collapsed onto the bed, unable to breathe.
Emily stood there pale and shaken.
She tried weakly to hide the cause of her terror from the frightened servants.
Later, when Dorothée could speak again, she attempted to laugh at her own fear, and Emily tried to do the same.
But nothing could persuade the servants to remain in rooms so close to those terrifying chambers.
Dorothée returned with Emily to her room.
There they discussed the strange event more calmly.
Emily almost doubted what she had seen, except that Dorothée had witnessed the same thing.
“I saw something move in the outer chamber,” Emily said. “Are you certain no door was left unlocked? Could someone have entered secretly?”
Dorothée shook her head.
“I have always kept those keys myself. Whenever I walked through the château to make sure everything was safe, I checked those doors as well. They were always locked.”
“No person could have entered.”
“And even if someone had found a way inside, why would they choose to hide in such a cold and abandoned place?”
Emily considered another possibility.
“Perhaps someone followed us here. Perhaps they wanted to frighten us as a joke. While we were in the small closet, they could have hidden themselves behind the bed curtains.”
Dorothée admitted that this was possible.
But then she remembered something.
“When we entered the rooms, I locked the outer door behind us. I did that so no one in the family would discover our visit.”
“Therefore, no one except us could have entered.”
She became convinced.
“No, ma’amselle. What we saw was not a person. It was something terrible and unnatural.”
Emily was deeply troubled.
Whatever the appearance had been, whether human or supernatural, the death of the Marchioness was a real and tragic event.
The strange occurrence happening in the very place where the Marchioness had suffered filled Emily with a fearful sense of mystery.
She had once learned at Udolpho that many frightening things could have natural explanations, but this time the terrible story surrounding the room made it difficult for her imagination to remain calm.
She begged Dorothée to keep the event secret.
“The Count must not hear of this,” Emily said. “Reports like these would only create fear and confusion among the family.”
“Time may reveal the truth. Until then, we must remain silent and watch.”
Dorothée agreed.
But then she remembered that all the doors of the northern rooms had been left open.
She had no courage to return alone.
After gathering enough strength to control her own fear, Emily offered to accompany her to the bottom of the back staircase and wait there while Dorothée went up.
The old woman accepted.
Together they left Emily’s room.
The halls and galleries remained silent as they walked.
When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Dorothée stopped again.
After listening carefully and hearing nothing, she finally climbed upward.
Emily waited below.
Dorothée barely allowed herself to look into the first room before quickly locking the door that closed off the entire suite.
Then she hurried back to Emily.
As they walked toward the great hall, they suddenly heard a sound of crying.
It seemed to come from the hall itself.
They stopped in fear.
Then Emily recognized the voice.
It was Annette.
She was crossing the hall with another female servant.
The other servants had already spread the story of what happened, and Annette was so frightened that she believed she could only be safe near her mistress.
Emily tried to laugh away her fears.
She tried to explain that there was nothing to worry about.
But neither argument nor reassurance could calm the girl.
Finally, feeling sorry for her distress, Emily allowed Annette to stay in her room for the rest of the night.