But I see you are thinking of
the Chevalier; he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but
he very soon will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame
Clairval of our journey, and to say, that the proposed connection
between the families must from this time be thought of no more.”

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece,
that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom
she was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,
which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When she
could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame’s
sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was,
that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be
greatly inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect. “I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,” added Madame Montoni,
“but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and
I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the
connection. I was weak enough—I am so foolish sometimes!—to suffer
other people’s uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment
yielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed
out the folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second
time. I am determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to
guide you better than yourself—I am determined, that you shall be
conformable.”

Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent
speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had
received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed
to her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have
avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to
the feelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the
same ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance
with Madame Clairval’s family, which induced her to withdraw from it,
now that her marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence,
and, with it, her views for her niece. Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either
remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she
attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired
to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to
think was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was
very long, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit the
reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw,
that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and
it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was
interested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker,
when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then torn
by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with its
neighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader. She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she would be
committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from
Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished
from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief. In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was
summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own
apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused. Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied by
her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the
unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity
piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered
as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were
alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither
softened to pity, nor awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her
will should be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though
this was done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long,
and torturing conversation, retired in tears. As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom,
as her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and
she was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known
voice of Valancourt. “Emily, O! my Emily!” cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of
his countenance and the eager desperation of his air. “In tears, Emily! I would speak with you,” said he, “I have much to say; conduct me to
where we may converse. But you tremble—you are ill! Let me lead you to
a seat.”

He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand to
lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a
languid smile, “I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she is
in the dining-parlour.” “I must speak with _you_, my Emily,” replied
Valancourt, “Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so
willing to resign me? But this is an improper place—I am overheard. Let
me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes.”—“When you have
seen my aunt,” said Emily. “I was wretched enough when I came hither,”
exclaimed Valancourt, “do not increase my misery by this coldness—this
cruel refusal.”

The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to
tears, but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed
with Madame Montoni. “Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?”
said Valancourt, in an altered tone: “it is he, to whom I must speak.”

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed
in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, and
entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the
tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from
wildness into tenderness. “You are ill, Emily,” said he, “they will
destroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.”

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;
the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her for
his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the
consequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,
with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency and
tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he felt
towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which
distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,
and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at
length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of
taking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable.