Chapter: CHAPTER IV



 And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.
     THOMSON

Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons.
Quesnel, concerning La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries were
concise, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious of
possessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned. He
declared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; and
that she might consider herself indebted to his prudence for even the
small income that remained for her. 'But, however,' added he, 'when
this Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your present
disagreeable state of dependence will cease. As a relation to you I
rejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, and, I may
add, so unexpected by your friends.' For some moments Emily was chilled
into silence by this speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive him,
concerning the purport of the note she had inclosed in Montoni's letter,
he appeared to have some private reason for disbelieving her assertion,
and, for a considerable time, persevered in accusing her of capricious
conduct. Being, at length, however, convinced that she really disliked
Morano and had positively rejected his suit, his resentment was
extravagant, and he expressed it in terms equally pointed and inhuman;
for, secretly flattered by the prospect of a connection with a nobleman,
whose title he had affected to forget, he was incapable of feeling
pity for whatever sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his
ambition.

Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited
her, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounce
Valancourt for Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter with
the violent passions of her uncle.

She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity of
a superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to
exasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel
his own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she
persisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to
the contempt of the world.

The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone,
and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her
departed father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then
remembered. 'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive how much more
valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility,
and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will
not indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, with
firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.'

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St.
Aubert's last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which
he would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the company
met at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of countenance.

In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank of
the Brenta in Madame Quesnel's carriage. The state of Emily's mind was
in melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the shades
that overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing under the trees,
and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee and calmly
enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape.
Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt Apennines, ascending in the
distance, thought of Montoni's castle, and suffered some terror, lest he
should convey her thither, for the purpose of enforcing her obedience;
but the thought vanished, when she considered, that she was as much in
his power at Venice as she could be elsewhere.

It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper
was spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's fancy,
on the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico,
till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at
table, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity of
the hour. Presently, a barge stopped at the steps that led into the
gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the voices of Montoni and
Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next moment, appeared. His
compliments she received in silence, and her cold air seemed at first to
discompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of manner,
though the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily perceived
disgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believed
could be shewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen him
otherwise than in the presence of his inferiors or equals.

When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost
involuntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with the
Count to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared more
probable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment and
throwing herself upon his generosity for a release. When, however,
on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from the
adoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant to
her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a man
as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatiently
rejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused upon
it for a moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated in the most
decisive terms she could select, mingling with it a severe censure
of his conduct; but, though the Count appeared mortified by this, he
persevered in the most ardent professions of admiration, till he was
interrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel.

During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered
miserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly
exerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed
now more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they had even
appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both argument and
menace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate conclusion to it, at
length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted to the power of Montoni
and to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, looked to Venice
with hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure from the
persecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the same
house with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would
not permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of her
own misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she
pleaded with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight
and general terms, that she should not be forgotten.

Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to
be pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, as
soon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded.

It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was
connected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she
took leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory
one she had known in their presence.

Morano returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched her
gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person,
who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They
arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presence
of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered
to retire to her own apartment.

On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held
with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, and
that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageous
to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of such extent
as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated without further
delay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent.

Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to
supplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a
man of Montoni's disposition, supplication would be equally useless. She
afterwards enquired by what right he exerted this unlimited authority
over her? a question, which her better judgment would have with-held
her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her nothing,
and would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing over her
defenceless condition.

'By what right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right of
my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you do
so. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in a
foreign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend;
you know the means; if you compel me to become your enemy--I will
venture to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation.
You may know _I_ am not to be trifled with.'

Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state of
despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all that
remained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at the
sound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened by
the expression of despair, that fixed her countenance, spoke in a manner
more kind than she had ever yet done. Emily's heart was touched; she
shed tears, and, after weeping for some time, recovered sufficient
composure to speak on the subject of her distress, and to endeavour to
interest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though the compassion of her
aunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to be overcome, and
her present object was to be the aunt of a Countess. Emily's efforts,
therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she
withdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. How often did she
remember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian
had mentioned Montoni's character with less reserve! When her mind,
however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she
considered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her alliance
with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part of the
marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to await
Montoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for life to a
man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had she never
even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she thus resolved
to brave.

An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off
Montoni's attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were
renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice.
There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight
councils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more
reserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own
interests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived, that
something extraordinary was working in his mind.

One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great
agitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to
Montoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home
immediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name. Montoni
obeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of the
circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, with a
part of which he was already acquainted.

A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatred
of Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, as
the murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate had
taken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who had
confessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and the
latter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni to consult on
the measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew, that, at this
time, the officers of the police were upon the watch for him, all over
the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was impracticable, and
Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the vigilance of
justice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. He knew
the danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in his
house, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that he
did not think it prudent to refuse him an asylum.

Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and for
whom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his character.

While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling to
attract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this
obstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his criminal
visitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was to be
celebrated on the following morning. To her repeated assurances, that
it should not take place, he replied only by a malignant smile; and,
telling her that the Count and a priest would be at his house, early
in the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment, by
opposition to his will and to her own interest. 'I am now going out for
the evening,' said he, 'remember, that I shall give your hand to Count
Morano in the morning.' Emily, having, ever since his late threats,
expected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, was
less shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been,
and she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriage
could not be valid, so long as she refused before the priest to repeat
any part of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her
long-harassed spirits shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his
vengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was not even perfectly
certain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, and
she trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed
unlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to
transgress any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.

While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of
distraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see
her, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she
repented that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting to
her former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and
entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain had
failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message,
prepared to go down to the Count.

The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the
kind of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were
circumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving,
as they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated his
judgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of complacency
and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained invariably the
same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every insinuating art
he so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured, that she
had nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn and
impressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted him
with an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained
against every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. A
just pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowed
from the fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of her
late father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea of
Valancourt.

She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment,
sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others,
endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare herself
to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following morning, when
all the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni would be united
against her.

The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber
with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She
had, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual
insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view of
Emily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible,
it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother's orphan child,
whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying father.

Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost
hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if
she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it,
and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a
marriage, which ought only to make her happy. 'I am sure,' said she, 'if
I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have been
flattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure,
niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured,
and shew a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count, for his
condescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly
he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give
yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he,
I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know
yourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell
you, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of
so much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often
tell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such
extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'

'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,
than my own,' said Emily.

'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that his
flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may
have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I
can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the
Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you
to repent at your leisure, long ago.'

'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said Emily,
with a heavy sigh.

'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni;
'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to
convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to
necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you
like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is
from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault if
you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind of
a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your ambition?'

'I have no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is to
remain in my present station.'

'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see
you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all
those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be
something like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to
the purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you
know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no
longer.'

Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it
would be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the
Count's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then,
desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night.
'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closed
upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad reflections.
For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly unconscious
where she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the room,
its gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on the
door, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously for
some sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it
was past midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up for
Montoni, had retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now
yielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity
of her spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind,
which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her
aunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and to
cross the apartment.

These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired
to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at
least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits
sufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching morning.

 Luckily, the Quesnels are coming to visit. This should clear things up, right? Wrong. Quesnel's really not interested in anything Em has to say. The wedding is on! In the middle of all of this madness, Orsino gets himself in some trouble. He hires an assassin to waylay and kill an enemy of his. Montoni, being a good buddy, hides Orsino in his house. It's the night before the wedding, and Madame Cheron is trying to talk some sense into Emily. But Emily still loves Valancourt. She tries to go to sleep, but can't help imagining terrible things. Things aren't looking too hot for Em.

