And as for me, ma’am, I am all astounded, as
one may say, and would no more sleep in this chamber, than I would on
the great cannon at the end of the east rampart.”

“And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the
rest?” said Emily smiling: “the best would be rather a hard bed.”

“Yes, ma’amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; but
they do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night,
standing beside the great cannon, as if to guard it.”

“Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy in
having you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all.”

“Dear ma’amselle! I will show you the very cannon; you can see it from
these windows!”

“Well,” said Emily, “but that does not prove, that an apparition guards
it.”

“What! not if I show you the very cannon! Dear ma’am, you will believe
nothing.”

“Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,” said
Emily.—“Well, ma’am, but you shall see it, if you will only step this
way to the casement.”—Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annette
looked surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit the
marvellous, Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest
it should overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a
lively topic—the regattas of Venice. “Aye, ma’amselle, those rowing matches,” said Annette, “and the fine
moonlight nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To be sure
the moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such sweet
music, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the lattice by
the west portico! Ma’amselle, it was Ludovico, that told me about that
picture, which you wanted so to look at last night, and—”

“What picture?” said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself. “O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.”

“You never saw it, then?” said Emily. “Who, I!—No, ma’amselle, I never did. But this morning,” continued
Annette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, “this morning,
as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma’am, I took a strange fancy to
see it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and I got as far as the
door, and should have opened it, if it had not been locked!”

Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance
occasioned, enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found,
that it was soon after herself had been there. She also asked further
questions, and the answers convinced her, that Annette, and probably
her informer, were ignorant of the terrible truth, though in Annette’s
account something very like the truth, now and then, mingled with the
falsehood. Emily now began to fear, that her visit to the chamber had
been observed, since the door had been closed, so immediately after her
departure; and dreaded lest this should draw upon her the vengeance of
Montoni. Her anxiety, also, was excited to know whence, and for what
purpose, the delusive report, which had been imposed upon Annette, had
originated, since Montoni could only have wished for silence and
secrecy; but she felt, that the subject was too terrible for this
lonely hour, and she compelled herself to leave it, to converse with
Annette, whose chat, simple as it was, she preferred to the stillness
of total solitude. Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from
Annette, that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt out;
and Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall doors,
as they were shut for the night. She, therefore, prepared for rest, but
was still unwilling that Annette should leave her. At this instant, the
great bell of the portal sounded. They listened in fearful expectation,
when, after a long pause of silence, it sounded again. Soon after, they
heard the noise of carriage wheels in the courtyard. Emily sunk almost
lifeless in her chair; “It is the Count,” said she. “What, at this time of night, ma’am!” said Annette: “no, my dear lady. But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for anybody to
come!”

“Nay, pr’ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,” said Emily in a voice
of agony—“Go, pr’ythee, go, and see who it is.”

Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily in
darkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in this
room, but was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and waited, in
breathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but Annette did not
return. Her patience, at length, exhausted, she tried to find her way
to the corridor, but it was long before she could touch the door of the
chamber, and, when she had opened it, the total darkness without made
her fear to proceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily even thought she
distinguished those of Count Morano and Montoni. Soon after she heard
steps approaching, and then a ray of light streamed through the
darkness, and Annette appeared, whom Emily went to meet. “Yes, ma’amselle,” said she, “you were right, it is the Count sure
enough.”

“It is he!” exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and
supporting herself by Annette’s arm. “Good Lord! my dear lady, don’t be in such a _fluster_, and look so
pale, we shall soon hear more.”

“We shall, indeed!” said Emily, moving as fast as she was able towards
her apartment. “I am not well; give me air.” Annette opened a casement,
and brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but she desired
Annette would not go till she heard from Montoni. “Dear ma’amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of night;
why he must think you are asleep.”

“Stay with me till I am so, then,” said Emily, who felt temporary
relief from this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though her
fears had prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret
reluctance, consented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to ask
her some questions; among others, whether she had seen the Count. “Yes, ma’am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in
the north turret, that overlooks the inner courtyard, you know. There I
saw the Count’s carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the great
door,—for the porter was just gone to bed—with several men on horseback
all by the light of the torches they carried.”

Emily was compelled to smile. “When the door was opened, the Count said
something, that I could not make out, and then got out, and another
gentleman with him. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to bed,
and I hastened away to my lady’s dressing-room, to see what I could
hear. But in the way I met Ludovico, and he told me that the Signor was
up, counselling with his master and the other Signors, in the room at
the end of the north gallery; and Ludovico held up his finger, and laid
it on his lips, as much as to say—There is more going on, than you
think of, Annette, but you must hold your tongue.