“To be
sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,” said she, “to break into a
lady’s room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable
to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle
comes to desire him to walk about his business—to turn round, and draw
his sword, and swear he’ll run him through the body! To be sure it was
very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did
not know what he was about.”

“Enough of this,” said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and
her lady. “It is nothing new,” said she: “we saw and heard enough of
this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma’amselle.”

“Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be
as prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.”

“Ah dear, ma’amselle!—to see now how considerate you can be about some
folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you so
deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and not
to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to love
her; but—”

“You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?” said Emily,
gravely. “Yes, ma’amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do,
you would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor
and her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always
advised him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased
to call them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient,
whether you would, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand
times, and I have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might
have felt a little for other people, and—”

“I thank you for your pity, Annette,” said Emily, interrupting her:
“but my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps,
or I think—I am sure—You may take away, Annette, I have done.”

“Dear ma’amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a
little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always
disturbed, I think. And at Thoulouse I have heard my lady talking of
you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, often
and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them what a
deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and
distress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away with
Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that you
connived at his coming about the house at night, and—”

“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, “it is surely impossible
my aunt could thus have represented me!”

“Indeed, ma’am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to
discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been
in fault, ma’amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. But my lady does not care what she says against anybody, for that
matter.”

“However that may be, Annette,” interrupted Emily, recovering her
composure, “it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt to
me. I know you have meant well, but—say no more.—I have quite dined.”

Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table. “Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?” said Emily, when she
was alone; “the treatment I am to receive from a relation—an aunt—who
ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my
reputation,—who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of
female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, to
utter falsehoods on so nice a subject—to repay the openness, and, I may
say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with
slanders—required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely have
believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what a
contrast does her character present to that of my beloved father; while
envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was
distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me
only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.”

Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the ramparts,
the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she often wished,
that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods below, and still
more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime scenes of the
surrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer her to pass the
gates of the castle, she tried to be contented with the romantic views
she beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had been employed on the
fortifications, had left their work, and the ramparts were silent and
solitary. Their lonely appearance, together with the gloom of a
lowering sky, assisted the musings of her mind, and threw over it a
kind of melancholy tranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge. She turned to observe a fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly
streaming from behind a heavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of the
castle, while the rest of the edifice was in deep shade, except, that,
through a lofty gothic arch, adjoining the tower, which led to another
terrace, the beams darted in full splendour, and showed the three
strangers she had observed in the morning. Perceiving them, she
started, and a momentary fear came over her, as she looked up the long
rampart, and saw no other persons. While she hesitated, they
approached. The gate at the end of the terrace, whither they were
advancing, she knew, was always locked, and she could not depart by the
opposite extremity, without meeting them; but, before she passed them,
she hastily drew a thin veil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill
conceal her beauty. They looked earnestly at her, and spoke to each
other in bad Italian, of which she caught only a few words; but the
fierceness of their countenances, now that she was near enough to
discriminate them, struck her yet more than the wild singularity of
their air and dress had formerly done. It was the countenance and
figure of him, who walked between the other two, that chiefly seized
her attention, which expressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark
watchful villany, that gave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this
was so legibly written on his features, as to be seen by a single
glance, for she passed the group swiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely
rested on them a moment. Having reached the terrace, she stopped, and
perceived the strangers standing in the shadow of one of the turrets,
gazing after her, and seemingly, by their action, in earnest
conversation. She immediately left the rampart, and retired to her
apartment. In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the
cedar chamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, some
other circumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual
height. He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment and
talk.