Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn thought;
but no sounds returned; and, after remaining at the casement, till the
light tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops and steal upon the
night-shade, she concluded, that they would not return, and retired
reluctantly to repose. VOLUME 3



 CHAPTER I

I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time,
The moment on ’t; for ’t must be done tonight. MACBETH


Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that
Annette had heard of Madame Montoni’s confinement in the chamber over
the portal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching
night. That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoined
her to conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet a hearer as
Annette, appeared very improbable, though he had now charged her with a
message, concerning the intended interview. He requested, that Emily
would meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a little after midnight,
when he himself would lead her to the place he had promised; a
proposal, from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears
darted athwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding
night, and which she neither knew how to trust, nor to dismiss. It
frequently occurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her,
concerning Madame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and
that he had deceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw
her into some of the desperate designs of the latter. The terrible
suspicion, that Madame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied
by one not less dreadful for herself. Unless the crime, by which the
aunt had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected
with profit, a motive, upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to
act, its object must be unattained, till the niece was also dead, to
whom Montoni knew that his wife’s estates must descend. Emily
remembered the words, which had informed her, that the contested
estates in France would devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, without
consigning them to her husband, and the former obstinate perseverance
of her aunt made it too probable, that she had, to the last, withheld
them. At this instant, recollecting Barnardine’s manner, on the
preceding night, she now believed, what she had then fancied, that it
expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at the recollection, which
confirmed her fears, and determined not to meet him on the terrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider these suspicions as the
extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed mind, and could not
believe Montoni liable to such preposterous depravity as that of
destroying, from one motive, his wife and her niece. She blamed herself
for suffering her romantic imagination to carry her so far beyond the
bounds of probability, and determined to endeavour to check its rapid
flights, lest they should sometimes extend into madness. Still,
however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting Barnardine, on the
terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to be relieved from this
terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her, and to sooth her
sufferings, made her hesitate what to do. “Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that
hour?” said she, recollecting herself, “the sentinels will stop me, and
Signor Montoni will hear of the affair.”

“O ma’amselle! that is well thought of,” replied Annette. “That is what
Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say it
unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the
end of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men on
watch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to come
to the terrace was, because he could take you to the place you want to
go to, without opening the great doors of the hall, which grate so
heavily.”

Emily’s spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed
to be honestly given to Annette. “But why did he desire I would come
alone, Annette?” said she. “Why that was what I asked him myself, ma’amselle. Says I, ‘Why is my
young lady to come alone?—Surely I may come with her!—What harm can _I_
do?’ But he said ‘No—no—I tell you not,’ in his gruff way. Nay, says I,
I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it’s a
hard matter if I can’t keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing
but—‘No—no—no.’ Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I will tell
you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, and I have never
opened my lips about it yet—so you need not be afraid of telling me. But all would not do. Then, ma’amselle, I went so far as to offer him a
beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keepsake, and I would
not have parted with it for all St. Marco’s Place; but even that would
not do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you know,
ma’am, who you are going to see.”

“Pray did Barnardine tell you this?”

“He! No, ma’amselle, that he did not.”

Emily enquired who did, but Annette showed, that she _could_ keep a
secret. During the remainder of the day, Emily’s mind was agitated with doubts
and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this
Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she
scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself
alternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she had
decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock strike
eleven—twelve—and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was now
come, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she felt
for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette follow
her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her
return, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly still,
and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of
dreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the
two solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed
only to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long
shadows of the pillars and by the catching lights between, often
stopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the distant obscurity
of the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to
turn her eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out
from behind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted
gallery, without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a
trembling hand, and, charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a
little open, that she might be heard if she called, she delivered to
her the lamp, which she did not dare to take herself because of the men
on watch, and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace.