She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity of
a superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to
exasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel
his own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she
persisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to
the contempt of the world. The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone,
and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her
departed father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then
remembered. “Alas!” said she, “I do indeed perceive how much more
valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility,
and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will not
indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, with
firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.”

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St.
Aubert’s last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which
he would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the company
met at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of countenance. In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the _fresco_ along the bank
of the Brenta in Madame Quesnel’s carriage. The state of Emily’s mind
was in melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the
shades that overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing under
the trees, and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee
and calmly enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant
landscape. Emily, when she looked at the snow-capped Apennines,
ascending in the distance, thought of Montoni’s castle, and suffered
some terror, lest he should convey her thither, for the purpose of
enforcing her obedience; but the thought vanished, when she considered,
that she was as much in his power at Venice as she could be elsewhere. It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper
was spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily’s fancy,
on the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico,
till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at
table, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity of
the hour. Presently, a barge stopped at the steps that led into the
gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the voices of Montoni and
Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next moment, appeared. His compliments she received in silence, and her cold air seemed at
first to discompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of
manner, though the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily
perceived disgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely
believed could be shown by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen
him otherwise than in the presence of his inferiors or equals. When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost
involuntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with the
Count to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared more
probable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment and
throwing herself upon his generosity for a release. When, however, on
the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from the
adoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant
to her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a man
as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatiently
rejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused upon it
for a moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated in the most
decisive terms she could select, mingling with it a severe censure of
his conduct; but, though the Count appeared mortified by this, he
persevered in the most ardent professions of admiration, till he was
interrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel. During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered
miserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly
exerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed
now more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they had even
appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both argument and
menace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate conclusion to it, at
length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted to the power of Montoni
and to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, looked to Venice
with hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure from the
persecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the same
house with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would
not permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of
her own misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom
she pleaded with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in
slight and general terms, that she should not be forgotten. Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to
be pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice,
as soon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded. It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was
connected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she
took leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only
satisfactory one she had known in their presence. Morano returned in Montoni’s barge, and Emily, as she watched her
gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person,
who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They
arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presence
of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered
to retire to her own apartment. On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held
with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be _trifled_ with,
and that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly
advantageous to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of
such extent as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated
without further delay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent. Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to
supplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a
man of Montoni’s disposition, supplication would be equally useless. She afterwards enquired by what right he exerted this unlimited
authority over her, a question, which her better judgment would have
withheld her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her
nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing
over her defenceless condition. “By what right!” cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, “by the right
of my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you
do so.