The gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat clouded by
anxiety. He kept a watchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost
difficulty, he had hitherto restrained from exasperating Montoni
further against Morano, by a mention of his late taunting words. One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding
evening. Verezzi’s eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that of
Emily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except Montoni, who
sat silent, and then interrupted the subject. When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into
close conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible temper
of Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious superiority,
by that decisive look and manner, which always accompanied the vigour
of his thought, and to which most of his companions submitted, as to a
power, that they had no right to question, though of each other’s
self-importance they were jealously scrupulous. Amidst this
conversation, one of them imprudently introduced again the name of
Morano; and Verezzi, now more heated by wine, disregarded the
expressive looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints of what had
passed on the preceding night. These, however, Montoni did not appear
to understand, for he continued silent in his chair, without
discovering any emotion, while, the choler of Verezzi increasing with
the apparent insensibility of Montoni, he at length told the suggestion
of Morano, that this castle did not lawfully belong to him, and that he
would not willingly leave another murder on his conscience. “Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?” said
Montoni, with a countenance pale in anger. “Why are the words of that
madman repeated to me?” Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni’s
indignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by thanks to
himself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed his
confusion. “Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a
madman?” rejoined Montoni, “or, what is the same thing, a man possessed
by the spirit of vengeance? But he has succeeded too well; you believe
what he said.”

“Signor,” said Verezzi, “we believe only what we know.”—“How!”
interrupted Montoni, sternly: “produce your proof.”

“We believe only what we know,” repeated Verezzi, “and we know nothing
of what Morano asserts.” Montoni seemed to recover himself. “I am
hasty, my friends,” said he, “with respect to my honour; no man shall
question it with impunity—you did not mean to question it. These
foolish words are not worth your remembrance, or my resentment. Verezzi, here is to your first exploit.”

“Success to your first exploit,” re-echoed the whole company. “Noble Signor,” replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped Montoni’s
resentment, “with my good will, you shall build your ramparts of gold.”

“Pass the goblet,” cried Montoni. “We will drink to Signora St.
Aubert,” said Cavigni. “By your leave we will first drink to the lady
of the castle.” said Bertolini.—Montoni was silent. “To the lady of the
castle,” said his guests. He bowed his head. “It much surprises me, Signor,” said Bertolini, “that you have so long
neglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.”

“It suits our purpose,” replied Montoni, “and _is_ a noble edifice. You
know not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.”

“It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,” replied
Bertolini, smiling. “I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.”

Montoni looked gravely at him. “If you will attend to what I say,” he
resumed, “you shall hear the story.”

The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more than
curiosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard the
relation before. “It is now near twenty years,” said Montoni, “since this castle came
into my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, my
predecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her
family. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was
fixed upon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however, that
she was herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on whom
she bestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took
possession of her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to her
own life. I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are some
singular and mysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall
repeat them.”

“Repeat them!” said a voice. Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke;
but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, at
length, recovered himself. “We are overheard,” said he: “we will finish
this subject another time. Pass the goblet.”

The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber. “Here is no person, but ourselves,” said Verezzi: “pray, Signor,
proceed.”

“Did you hear anything?” said Montoni. “We did,” said Bertolini. “It could be only fancy,” said Verezzi, looking round again. “We see no
person besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed within
the room. Pray, Signor, go on.”

Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while
the cavaliers drew nearer to attend. “Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some months
shown symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Her
mood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and,
at others, as I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms of
frantic madness. It was one night in the month of October, after she
had recovered from one of those fits of excess, and had sunk again into
her usual melancholy, that she retired alone to her chamber, and
forbade all interruption. It was the chamber at the end of the
corridor, Signors, where we had the affray, last night. From that hour,
she was seen no more.”

“How! seen no more!” said Bertolini, “was not her body found in the
chamber?”

“Were her remains never found?” cried the rest of the company all
together. “Never!” replied Montoni. “What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?” said
Bertolini.—“Aye, what reasons?” said Verezzi.—“How happened it, that
her remains were never found? Although she killed herself, she could
not bury herself.” Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, who began to
apologise. “Your pardon, Signor,” said he: “I did not consider, that the lady was
your relative, when I spoke of her so lightly.”

Montoni accepted the apology. “But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him to
believe, that the lady committed suicide.”

“Those I will explain hereafter,” said Montoni: “at present let me
relate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes no
further, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say.”

“Listen!” said a voice. They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed.