She was unable, at that
time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her
acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the
fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to
believe that he was the author of the sonnets. As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness
contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the
sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did not
recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the
instrument, now ceased. She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then,
not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet too
much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called
from the casement, “Is that song from Gascony?” Her anxious attention
was not cheered by any reply; everything remained silent. Her
impatience increasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but
still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among the
battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a
belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she had
spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared certain, had
Valancourt heard and recognised, he would instantly have replied to. Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of prudence, and not
an accidental removal, might occasion his silence; but the surmise that
led to this reflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and
grief; for, if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable that
he was here a prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom
were at that time engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some
attempt to reach her. Had he even recollected Emily’s voice, he would
have feared, in these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of
the men, who guarded his prison. What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she
dreaded;—dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she
was anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she
still was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with
the fear. She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen,
and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the morning; when,
wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she found it
utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt and
apprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she rose from
the couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she would pace the
room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with despondence to
her pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those of this
anxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, and
conclude her present state of torturing suspense. CHAPTER VI

Might we but hear
The folded flocks penn’d in their wattled cotes,
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,
Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames,
’Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. MILTON


In the morning Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who came
at an early hour. “Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma’amselle,” said
she, as soon as she entered the room,—“fine doings, indeed! Were you
not frightened, ma’amselle, at not seeing me?”

“I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,” replied Emily—“What
detained you?”

“Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my
fault, indeed, ma’amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue Ludovico
locked me up again.”

“Locked you up!” said Emily, with displeasure, “Why do you permit
Ludovico to lock you up?”

“Holy Saints!” exclaimed Annette, “how can I help it! If he will lock
the door, ma’amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get out,
unless I jump through the window? But that I should not mind so much,
if the casements here were not all so high; one can hardly scramble up
to them on the inside, and one should break one’s neck, I suppose,
going down on the outside. But you know, I dare say, ma’am, what a
hurly-burly the castle was in last night; you must have heard some of
the uproar.”

“What, were they disputing, then?” said Emily. “No, ma’amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe there
was not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of those
fine ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first, that all
those fine silks and fine veils,—why, ma’amselle, their veils were
worked with silver! and fine trimmings—boded no good—I guessed what
they were!”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what will become of me!”

“Aye, ma’am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. ‘Good God!’ said
he, ‘Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about
the castle among all these drunken Signors?’

“‘O!’ says I, ‘for that matter, I only want to go to my young lady’s
chamber, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted passage and
across the great hall and up the marble staircase and along the north
gallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the
corridor in a minute.’ ‘Are you so?’ says he, ‘and what is to become of
you, if you meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?’ ‘Well,’ says
I, ‘if you think there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me; I am
never afraid when you are by.’ ‘What!’ says he, ‘when I am scarcely
recovered of one wound, shall I put myself in the way of getting
another? for if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will fall
a-fighting with me directly. No, no,’ says he, ‘I will cut the way
shorter, than through the vaulted passage and up the marble staircase,
and along the north gallery and through the west wing of the castle,
for you shall stay here, Annette; you shall not go out of this room,
tonight.’ So, with that I says—”

“Well, well,” said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on
another subject,—“so he locked you up?”

“Yes, he did indeed, ma’amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to the
contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And in a few
minutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor Verezzi roaring
along the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico’s hall, for
old Carlo’s; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for
more wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying of
thirst.