She often called upon the name of
her late father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea
of Valancourt. She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment,
sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at
others, endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare
herself to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following
morning, when all the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni
would be united against her. The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber
with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She had,
this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual
insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view
of Emily’s distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom
audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother’s orphan
child, whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying
father. Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost
hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if
she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it,
and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a
marriage, which ought only to make her happy. “I am sure,” said she,
“if I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have
been flattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am
sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly
honoured, and show a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count,
for his condescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how
humbly he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you
give yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he,
I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know
yourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell
you, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so
much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often
tell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such
extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!”

“Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,
than my own,” said Emily. “O! that is all mere affectation,” rejoined her aunt. “I know that his
flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may
have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I
can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the
Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you
to repent at your leisure, long ago.”

“O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!” said Emily,
with a heavy sigh. “It is happy for you, that he does not,” rejoined Madame Montoni; “and
what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to
convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to
necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you
like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is
from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault
if you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what
kind of a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your
ambition?”

“I have no ambition whatever, madam,” replied Emily, “my only wish is
to remain in my present station.”

“O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,” said her aunt, “I see you
are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all those
fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be
something like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to
the purpose—for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you
know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no
longer.”

Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it
would be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid
the Count’s presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and
then, desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her
good-night. “Good-night, madam,” said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the
door closed upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad
reflections. For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly
unconscious where she was; at length, raising her head, and looking
round the room, its gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed
her eyes on the door, through which her aunt had disappeared, and
listened anxiously for some sound, that might relieve the deep
dejection of her spirits; but it was past midnight, and all the family
except the servant, who sat up for Montoni, had retired to bed. Her
mind, long harassed by distress, now yielded to imaginary terrors; she
trembled to look into the obscurity of her spacious chamber, and feared
she knew not what; a state of mind, which continued so long, that she
would have called up Annette, her aunt’s woman, had her fears permitted
her to rise from her chair, and to cross the apartment. These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired
to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try,
at least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of
spirits sufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching
morning. CHAPTER V

Dark power! with shudd’ring, meek submitted thought
Be mine to read the visions old
Which thy awak’ning bards have told,
And, lest they meet my blasted view,
Hold each strange tale devoutly true. COLLINS’ ODE TO FEAR


Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at
length, sunk, by a quick knocking at her chamber door. She started up
in terror, for Montoni and Count Morano instantly came to her mind;
but, having listened in silence for some time, and recognising the
voice of Annette, she rose and opened the door. “What brings you hither
so early?” said Emily, trembling excessively. She was unable to support
herself, and sat down on the bed. “Dear ma’amselle!” said Annette, “do not look so pale. I am quite
frightened to see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the
servants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough!