And so I did hold my
tongue, ma’amselle, and came away to tell you directly.”

Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and
how Montoni received them; but Annette could not inform her. “Ludovico,” she added, “had just been to call Signor Montoni’s valet,
that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him.”

Emily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much
increased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants’ hall,
where it was possible she might hear something of the Count’s
intention, respecting his stay at the castle. “Yes, ma’am,” said Annette with readiness; “but how am I to find the
way, if I leave the lamp with you?”

Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the
chamber. When they had reached the top of the great staircase, Emily
recollected, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid the
great hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages to a
back staircase, which led directly to that of the servants. As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she
might again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again be
shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already
perplexed by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the many
doors that offered. While she stepped thoughtfully along, she fancied,
that she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and, having paused a
moment, she heard it again and distinctly. Several doors appeared on
the right hand of the passage. She advanced, and listened. When she
came to the second, she heard a voice, apparently in complaint, within,
to which she continued to listen, afraid to open the door, and
unwilling to leave it. Convulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing
accents of an agonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stood appalled, and
looked through the gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The lamentations continued. Pity now began to subdue terror; it was
possible she might administer comfort to the sufferer, at least, by
expressing sympathy, and she laid her hand on the door. While she
hesitated she thought she knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones
of grief. Having, therefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she
gently opened the door, within which all was dark, except that from an
inner apartment a partial light appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it, the appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her
dressing-table, weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes,
struck her, and she paused. Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could
not distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not
allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame
Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by
her own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to
know what occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late
an hour to her aunt’s dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings
by surprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening
to a private discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, after
some further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearer
interests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt,
respecting Madame Montoni. Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the
servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or
affected to be so, concerning the Count’s intended stay at the castle. They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed,
and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder how
their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness of
night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for any
other purpose but that of showing the dreariness of the mountains. Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisy
petitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table. “And now, ma’amselle,” added she, “I am so sleepy!—I am sure, if you
were so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.”

Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also
waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it
appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she
determined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her
gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized her
spirits, and she hesitated. “And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep,
Annette,” said she, “for I fear it will be very long before I forget
myself in sleep.”

“I dare say it will be very long, ma’amselle,” said Annette. “But, before you go,” rejoined Emily, “let me ask you—Had Signor
Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?”

“O no, ma’am, they were alone together.”

“Have you been in my aunt’s dressing-room, since you left me?”

“No, ma’amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was fastened;
so I thought my lady was gone to bed.”

“Who, then, was with your lady just now?” said Emily, forgetting, in
surprise, her usual prudence. “Nobody, I believe, ma’am,” replied Annette, “nobody has been with her,
I believe, since I left you.”

Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle
with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that
she dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own
circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the
miniature picture, which she had found, after her father’s death, among
the papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It was open upon the table,
before her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken
out of a little box by Emily, some hours before. The sight of it called
up many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the
countenance soothed the emotions, which these had occasioned. It was
the same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, while
she gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied a
resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenly
interrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that had
been found with this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her so
much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep
reverie, into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose
to undress, the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this
midnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired
with the impression the subject she had been considering had given to
her mind, to appall her. Annette’s hints, too, concerning this chamber,
simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed
a circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had witnessed, and
since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own.