The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently
compelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any
circumstances, that had occurred since her departure from Thoulouse. The gentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes of
her early happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of a
higher world; while the characters and circumstances, now passing
beneath her eye, excited both terror and surprise. She could scarcely
have imagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as those which
Montoni exhibited, could have been concentrated in one individual; yet
what more surprised her, was, that, on great occasions, he could bend
these passions, wild as they were, to the cause of his interest, and
generally could disguise in his countenance their operation on his
mind; but she had seen him too often, when he had thought it
unnecessary to conceal his nature, to be deceived on such occasions. Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered imagination,
or like one of those frightful fictions, in which the wild genius of
the poets sometimes delighted. Reflection brought only regret, and
anticipation terror. How often did she wish to “steal the lark’s wing,
and mount the swiftest gale,” that Languedoc and repose might once more
be hers! Of Count Morano’s health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heard
only vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he
would never leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be
shocked to think, that she, however innocently, might be the means of
his death; and Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion,
interpreted it in her own way. But a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette’s
attention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity so
natural to her. Coming one day to Emily’s apartment, with a countenance
full of importance, “What can all this mean, ma’amselle?” said she. “Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should never catch me
going on my travels any more! I must think it a fine thing, truly, to
come abroad, and see foreign parts! I little thought I was coming to be
catched up in an old castle, among such dreary mountains, with the
chance of being murdered, or, what is as good, having my throat cut!”

“What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?” said Emily, in astonishment. “Aye, ma’amselle, you may look surprised; but you won’t believe it,
perhaps, till they have murdered you, too. You would not believe about
the ghost I told you of, though I showed you the very place, where it
used to appear!—You will believe nothing, ma’amselle.”

“Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven’s sake,
explain your meaning. You spoke of murder!”

“Aye, ma’amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but what
signifies explaining?—you will not believe.”

Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard. “O, I have seen enough, ma’am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can
prove. Poor soul! they will murder him, too! I little thought, when he
sung those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!”—Emily looked
impatient and displeased. “Well, ma’amselle, as I was saying, these
preparations about the castle, and these strange-looking people, that
are calling here every day, and the Signor’s cruel usage of my lady,
and his odd goings-on—all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode no good. And he bid me hold my tongue. So, says I, the Signor’s strangely
altered, Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what he was in France;
there, all so gay! Nobody so gallant to my lady, then; and he could
smile, too, upon a poor servant, sometimes, and jeer her, too,
good-naturedly enough. I remember once, when he said to me, as I was
going out of my lady’s dressing-room—Annette, says he—”

“Never mind what the Signor said,” interrupted Emily; “but tell me, at
once, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you.”

“Aye, ma’amselle,” rejoined Annette, “that is just what Ludovico said:
says he, Never mind what the Signor says to you. So I told him what I
thought about the Signor. He is so strangely altered, said I: for now
he is so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp with my lady; and, if
he meets one, he’ll scarcely look at one, unless it be to frown. So
much the better, says Ludovico, so much the better. And to tell you the
truth, ma’amselle, I thought this was a very ill-natured speech of
Ludovico: but I went on. And then, says I, he is always knitting his
brows; and if one speaks to him, he does not hear; and then he sits up
counselling so, of a night, with the other Signors—there they are, till
long past midnight, discoursing together! Aye, but says Ludovico, you
don’t know what they are counselling about. No, said I, but I can
guess—it is about my young lady. Upon that, Ludovico burst out
a-laughing, quite loud; so he put me in a huff, for I did not like that
either I or you, ma’amselle, should be laughed at; and I turned away
quick, but he stopped me. ‘Don’t be affronted, Annette,’ said he, ‘but
I cannot help laughing;’ and with that he laughed again. ‘What!’ says
he, ‘do you think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to
counsel about thy young lady! No, no, there is something more in the
wind than that. And these repairs about the castle, and these
preparations about the ramparts—they are not making about young
ladies.’ Why, surely, said I, the Signor, my master, is not going to
make war? ‘Make war!’ said Ludovico, ‘what, upon the mountains and the
woods? for here is no living soul to make war upon that I see.’

‘What are these preparations for, then?’ said I; why surely nobody is
coming to take away my master’s castle! ‘Then there are so many
ill-looking fellows coming to the castle every day,’ says Ludovico,
without answering my question, ‘and the Signor sees them all, and talks
with them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood! By holy St.
Marco! some of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever set my
eyes upon.’

“I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away my
master’s castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but he
did not know for certain. ‘Then yesterday,’ said he, but you must not
tell this, ma’amselle, ‘yesterday, a party of these men came, and left
all their horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they are to
stay, for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with the best
provender in the manger; but the men are, most of them, in the
neighbouring cottages.’

“So, ma’amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard
anything so strange in my life. But what can these ill-looking men be
come about, if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knows this, or
why should he be so civil to them? And why should he fortify the
castle, and counsel so much with the other Signors, and be so
thoughtful?”

“Is this all you have to tell, Annette?” said Emily.