But, I know not how it
is—your conversation is so fascinating—that it can charm even memory, I
think, or I should certainly have delivered my friend’s apology
before.”

“The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,”
said Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni’s
neglect, than flattered by Cavigni’s compliment. Her manner, at this
moment, and Cavigni’s late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in
Emily’s mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to
confirm it, appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that
Montoni was paying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only
accepted them, but was jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect
on his part.—That Madame Cheron at her years should elect a second
husband was ridiculous, though her vanity made it not impossible; but
that Montoni, with his discernment, his figure, and pretensions, should
make a choice of Madame Cheron—appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts,
however, did not dwell long on the subject; nearer interests pressed
upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourt dancing
with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately tormented her mind. As
she passed along the gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing
and half hoping that he might appear in the crowd; and the
disappointment she felt on not seeing him, told her, that she had hoped
more than she had feared. Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech
about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew
he should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she,
receiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself
entirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would have
said, “I will not triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness
to bear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly
run away with your prize.”

The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as
in one large saloon of the château, and with more of taste, than either
of splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped
with Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty,
disguised her emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table
with herself. There, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high
displeasure, said to some person who sat next to her, “Pray, who _is_
that young man?” “It is the Chevalier Valancourt,” was the answer. “Yes, I am not ignorant of his name, but who is this Chevalier
Valancourt that thus intrudes himself at this table?” The attention of
the person, to whom she spoke, was called off before she received a
second reply. The table, at which they sat, was very long, and,
Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the bottom, and Emily
near the top, the distance between them may account for his not
immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to that end of the
table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards it, she
observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the
observation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than the
accounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this same
lady. Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because
they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable in
her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the
petty resentment of a narrow pride. “I admire the lady,” said she, “but
I must condemn her choice of a partner.” “Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt
is one of the most accomplished young men we have,” replied the lady,
to whom this remark was addressed: “it is whispered, that Mademoiselle
d’Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, “it is
impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little the
air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table
of Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have
besides particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.”

“I cannot doubt the truth of it,” replied the lady gravely, disgusted
by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion of
Valancourt’s merit. “You will, perhaps, doubt it,” said Madame Cheron,
“when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected his
suit.”

This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it
conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most
important person in every affair that concerned her niece, and because
literally _she_ had rejected Valancourt. “Your reasons are indeed such
as cannot be doubted,” replied the lady, with an ironical smile. “Any
more than the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,” added Cavigni,
who stood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to
herself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. “His discernment _may_ be justly questioned, Signor,” said Madame
Cheron, who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium
on Emily. “Alas!” exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected
ecstasy, “how vain is that assertion, while that face—that shape—that
air—combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has been
his destruction.”

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately
spoken, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not
perfectly understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself
complimented by it, said smilingly, “O Signor! you are very gallant;
but those, who hear you vindicate the Chevalier’s discernment, will
suppose that I am the object of it.”

“They cannot doubt it,” replied Cavigni, bowing low. “And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?”

“Unquestionably it would,” said Cavigni. “I cannot endure the thought,” said Madame Cheron. “It is not to be endured,” replied Cavigni. “What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?” rejoined Madame
Cheron. “Alas! I cannot assist you,” replied Cavigni, with a deliberating air. “Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people
understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first
assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier’s want of
discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to
distress you with his admiration.—But then again—that diffidence, which
renders you so insensible to your own perfections—they will consider
this, and Valancourt’s taste will not be doubted, though you arraign
it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue to
believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them without any
hint of mine—that the Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful
woman.”

“All this is very distressing!” said Madame Cheron, with a profound
sigh.