On Annette’s appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these
strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn. “They are just come, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “with two Signors from
Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.—But what
can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad to come
freely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seem
merry enough, I am sure.”

“They were taken prisoners, perhaps?” said Emily. “Taken prisoners!” exclaimed Annette; “no, indeed, ma’amselle, not
they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three
times, to the Signor’s you know, ma’amselle, and it was said, but I did
not believe a word of it—it was said, that the Signor liked her better
than he should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true,
said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.”

Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were,
as well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the
subject, and spoke of distant France. “Ah, ma’amselle! we shall never see it more!” said Annette, almost
weeping.—“I must come on my travels, forsooth!”

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she
scarcely herself indulged. “How—how, ma’amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons. Valancourt, too?” said Annette, sobbing. “I—I—am sure, if Ludovico had
been in France, I would never have left it.”

“Why do you lament quitting France, then?” said Emily, trying to smile,
“since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico.”

“Ah, ma’amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle,
serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!”

“Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time
will come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish
with pleasure.”

Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense of
her own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again
to lament the irresistible force of circumstances over the taste and
powers of the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to be
sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The
enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold,
and dim. As she mused upon the book before her, she involuntarily
exclaimed, “Are these, indeed, the passages, that have so often given
me exquisite delight? Where did the charm exist?—Was it in my mind, or
in the imagination of the poet? It lived in each,” said she, pausing. “But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not
tempered like his own, however it may be inferior to his in power.”

Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved
her from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought
cannot always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the
consideration of her own situation. In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where she
would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni’s associates, she walked
for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the further
end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It was
the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and
seemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead,
particularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conduct
of Montoni. As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling
with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning the
character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, that
they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herself
in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom she
considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates,
amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was at
this moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to
her imagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence,
and her resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood all the
horrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from an
encounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. The
disputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, whenever
he should again call upon her, that she might regain safety and
freedom; but then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her
heart, and plunge her into the distractions of doubt. She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholy
twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom of the
oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective of the
corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by the
glimmering window, that terminated it. Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed
faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed to
render the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwilling
to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet
come, still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment,
where she had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a
spectacle so horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with
emotions of indescribable awe, this remembrance suddenly recurred. It
now brought with it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done,
which the late conduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit
the gallery, while she had power to do so, she heard a sudden step
behind her.—It might be that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to
look, she saw, through the gloom, a tall figure following her, and all
the horrors of that chamber rushed upon her mind. In the next moment,
she found herself clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep
voice murmur in her ear. When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, she
demanded who detained her. “It is I,” replied the voice—“Why are you thus alarmed?”

She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light,
that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did
not permit her to distinguish the features. “Whoever you are,” said Emily, in a trembling voice, “for heaven’s sake
let me go!”

“My charming Emily,” said the man, “why will you shut yourself up in
this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with me
to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of the
party;—you shall not repent the exchange.”

Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.