Your reproaches, however
just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violence
against you.”

“What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands—would
you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties? Would you have me give up my settlements?”

“How much you mistake me, madam!” said Emily, “I am unequal to advise
you on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for
saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliate
Signor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches.”

“Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I
disdain to attempt it.”

Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinate
temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings, she
looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. “Your
situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam,” said Emily, “as
you may imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse than
they are, for the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for his
possession of your settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, you
may look forward to it as a resource, at least, that will afford you a
competence, should the Signor’s future conduct compel you to sue for
separation.”

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. “Unfeeling, cruel girl!”
said she, “and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to
complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that my
future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs are as
fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, to
endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because you
happen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heart
to a person, who could sympathise in my distress, but I find, that your
people of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may
retire to your chamber.”

Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled
emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she
yielded to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt’s
situation had occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with
Valancourt, in France, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the
broken fortunes of Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also,
concerning his character, appeared not less so, though the particular
circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the stranger had
alluded, yet remained to be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own
observations and the words of Count Morano had convinced her, that
Montoni’s situation was not what it formerly appeared to be, the
intelligence she had just received from her aunt on this point, struck
her with all the force of astonishment, which was not weakened, when
she considered the present style of Montoni’s living, the number of
servants he maintained, and the new expences he was incurring, by
repairing and fortifying his castle. Her anxiety for her aunt and for
herself increased with reflection. Several assertions of Morano, which,
on the preceding night, she had believed were prompted either by
interest, or by resentment, now returned to her mind with the strength
of truth. She could not doubt, that Montoni had formerly agreed to give
her to the Count, for a pecuniary reward;—his character, and his
distressed circumstances justified the belief; these, also, seemed to
confirm Morano’s assertion, that he now designed to dispose of her,
more advantageously for himself, to a richer suitor. Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni, he
had said—he would not quit the castle _he dared to call his_, nor
willingly leave _another_ murder on his conscience—hints, which might
have no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was now
inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to
think, that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible
they could apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neither
release her from her melancholy situation, nor enable her to bear it
with greater fortitude, she tried to divert her anxiety, and took down
from her little library a volume of her favourite Ariosto; but his wild
imagery and rich invention could not long enchant her attention; his
spells did not reach her heart, and over her sleeping fancy they
played, without awakening it. She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that
her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when they
did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of
tenderness and regret; and there were times, when music had increased
such sorrow to a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had
not suddenly ceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time,
when she mourned for her father, and heard the midnight strains, that
floated by her window near the convent in Languedoc, on the night that
followed his death. She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber, at
which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. “My
lady’s, ma’amselle,” replied Annette: “the Signor ordered her dinner to
be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. There
have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I think.”

Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little
table, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thus
easily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whom
Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at
their strange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they had
been attended by Montoni’s order. “Do they dine with the Signor, then?”
said Emily. “No, ma’amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north end
of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor told
old Carlo to see them provided with everything necessary. They have
been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmen
on the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I am
frightened whenever I see them.”

Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was
likely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a
cottage in the wood below, and that everybody said he must die. Emily’s
countenance discovered her emotion. “Dear ma’amselle,” said Annette, “to see how young ladies will disguise
themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or I
am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enough
to hate him.”

“I hope I hate nobody,” replied Emily, trying to smile; “but certainly
I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person
dying by violent means.”

“Yes, ma’amselle, but it is his own fault.”

Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way.