I must first secure these estates by possession: when that is
done, you may return to France if you will.”

The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he
had just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that
she had made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She had no words to express what she felt, and knew, that it would have
been useless, if she had. As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned
away, and at the same time desired she would withdraw to her apartment;
but, unable to leave the room, she sat down in a chair near the door,
and sighed heavily. She had neither words nor tears. “Why will you indulge this childish grief?” said he. “Endeavour to
strengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; you
have no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent back to
France. At present retire to your apartment.”

“I dare not go, sir,” said she, “where I shall be liable to the
intrusion of Signor Verezzi.” “Have I not promised to protect you?”
said Montoni. “You have promised, sir,”—replied Emily, after some
hesitation. “And is not my promise sufficient?” added he sternly. “You
will recollect your former promise, Signor,” said Emily, trembling,
“and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this.” “Will
you provoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?”
said Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure. “If that will satisfy
you, I will do it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber, before I
retract my promise; you have nothing to fear there.” Emily left the
room, and moved slowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting
Verezzi, or Bertolini, made her quicken her steps, though she could
scarcely support herself; and soon after she reached once more her own
apartment. Having looked fearfully round her, to examine if any person
was there, and having searched every part of it, she fastened the door,
and sat down by one of the casements. Here, while she looked out for
some hope to support her fainting spirits, which had been so long
harassed and oppressed, that, if she had not now struggled much against
misfortune, they would have left her, perhaps, for ever, she
endeavoured to believe, that Montoni did really intend to permit her
return to France as soon as he had secured her property, and that he
would, in the mean time, protect her from insult; but her chief hope
rested with Ludovico, who, she doubted not, would be zealous in her
cause, though he seemed almost to despair of success in it. One
circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in. Her prudence, or rather
her fears, had saved her from mentioning the name of Valancourt to
Montoni, which she was several times on the point of doing, before she
signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release, if he should be
really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this, Montoni’s jealous
fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt with new severities,
and have suggested the advantage of holding him a captive for life. Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this
same chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to
Annette’s bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain in
this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should be
still, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the
music, which she had formerly heard. Though its sounds might not enable
her positively to determine, whether Valancourt was there, they would
perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, so
necessary to her present support. But, on the other hand, if all should
be silent! She hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way,
but waited, with impatient expectation, the approaching hour. The night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in
the wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air,
such as those, which often deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests,
and amidst scenes of desolation. Emily heard, as formerly, the
sentinels pass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from
her casement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a precaution, which
appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the walls, and
saw their shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the soldiers’
march, and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and
were lost again, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she
had suffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned
almost involuntary comparisons between her present, and her late
situation. But this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely
checked the course of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet
come, in which she had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed
the casement, and endeavoured to await it in patience. The door of the
staircase she tried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of
the room; but this expedient her fears now represented to her to be
very inadequate to the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often
looked at a large and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with
wishes that she and Annette had strength enough to move it. While she
blamed the long stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some
other of the servants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room
appear less desolate, and sat down beside it with a book, which her
eyes perused, while her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, and her own
misfortunes. As she sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she
distinguished music, and went to the casement to listen, but the loud
swell of the gust overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk again,
she heard distinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet
strings of a lute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes,
and again was succeeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope
and fear, opened her casement to listen, and to try whether her own
voice could be heard by the musician; for to endure any longer this
state of torturing suspense concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly
impossible. There was a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers,
that permitted her to distinguish from below the tender notes of the
very lute she had formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive voice, made
sweeter by the low rustling sound, that now began to creep along the
wood-tops, till it was lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then
began to wave, while, through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind,
groaning heavily, rolled onward over the woods below, bending them
almost to their roots; and, as the long-resounding gale swept away,
other woods, on the right, seemed to answer the “loud lament;” then,
others, further still, softened it into a murmur, that died into
silence.