“You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,” replied Emily, “and
let me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never
mention what you have just told me to any other person. Signor Montoni,
as you say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what inquiries were
made concerning the lady?”

“O! a great deal, indeed, ma’amselle, for the Signor laid claim to the
castle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, the
judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could not
take possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, if,
after all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good as
dead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own. But the
story went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very
strange, ma’amselle, that I shall not tell them.”

“That is stranger still, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, and rousing
herself from her reverie. “But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwards
seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?”

“Speak—speak to her!” cried Annette, with a look of terror; “no, to be
sure.”

“And why not?” rejoined Emily, willing to hear further. “Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!”

“But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they had
approached, and spoken to it?”

“O ma’amselle, I cannot tell. How can you ask such shocking questions? But nobody ever saw it come in, or go out of the castle; and it was in
one place now, and then the next minute in quite another part of the
castle; and then it never spoke, and, if it was alive, what should it
do in the castle if it never spoke? Several parts of the castle have
never been gone into since, they say, for that very reason.”

“What, because it never spoke?” said Emily, trying to laugh away the
fears that began to steal upon her. “No, ma’amselle, no;” replied Annette, rather angrily “but because
something has been seen there. They say, too, there is an old chapel
adjoining the west side of the castle, where, any time at midnight, you
may hear such groans!—it makes one shudder to think of them!—and
strange sights have been seen there—”

“Pr’ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,” said Emily. “Silly tales, ma’amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about this,
if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter’s night
that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to keep old
Carlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her afterwards to the
Signor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina was sitting with
them in the little hall, says Carlo, ‘I wish we had some of those figs
to roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and I
am loath to fetch them; do, Caterina,’ says he, ‘for you are young and
nimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them;
they lie,’ says he, ‘in such a corner of the store-room, at the end of
the north-gallery; here, take the lamp,’ says he, ‘and mind, as you go
up the great staircase, that the wind, through the roof, does not blow
it out.’ So, with that, Caterina took the lamp—Hush! ma’amselle, I
surely heard a noise!”

Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened
attentively; but everything was still, and Annette proceeded:

“Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we
passed, ma’am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she went with
the lamp in her hand, thinking of nothing at all—There, again!” cried
Annette suddenly—“I heard it again!—it was not fancy, ma’amselle!”

“Hush!” said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to sit
quite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall. It came
repeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowly
opened.—It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady wanted
her. Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not immediately
overcome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scolded
Caterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was also terrified lest
what she had told had been overheard.—Emily, whose mind was deeply
impressed by the chief circumstance of Annette’s relation, was
unwilling to be left alone, in the present state of her spirits; but,
to avoid offending Madame Montoni, and betraying her own weakness, she
struggled to overcome the illusions of fear, and dismissed Annette for
the night. When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of
Signora Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wild
and solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and the
power of a man, to whom, only a few preceding months, she was an entire
stranger; who had already exercised a usurped authority over her, and
whose character she now regarded, with a degree of terror, apparently
justified by the fears of others. She knew, that he had invention equal
to the conception and talents to the execution of any project, and she
greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to oppose the
perpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She had long
observed the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been witness
to the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received from her husband. To these circumstances, which conspired to give her just cause for
alarm, were now added those thousand nameless terrors, which exist only
in active imaginations, and which set reason and examination equally at
defiance. Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her
departure from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had said
to dissuade her from venturing on the journey. His fears had often
since appeared to her prophetic—now they seemed confirmed. Her heart,
as it gave her back the image of Valancourt, mourned in vain regret,
but reason soon came with a consolation which, though feeble at first,
acquired vigour from reflection. She considered, that, whatever might
be her sufferings, she had withheld from involving him in misfortune,
and that, whatever her future sorrows could be, she was, at least, free
from self-reproach. Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along
the corridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had
long been extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the dying
embers, till a loud gust, that swept through the corridor, and shook
the doors and casements, alarmed her, for its violence had moved the
chair she had placed as a fastening, and the door, leading to the
private staircase stood half open. Her curiosity and her fears were
again awakened. She took the lamp to the top of the steps, and stood
hesitating whether to go down; but again the profound stillness and the
gloom of the place awed her, and, determining to enquire further, when
daylight might assist the search, she closed the door, and placed
against it a stronger guard.