Chapter: CHAPTER III



 He is a great observer, and he looks
 Quite through the deeds of men:  he loves no plays,
     he hears no music;
 Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
 As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
 that could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
 Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
 While they behold a greater than themselves.
     JULIUS CAESAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after the
dawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had danced
all night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning,
like so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul was
little susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the energies of
the passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck the
happiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of his
mind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature was
capable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to him little
more than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, he
substituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and they
ceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming, which he had
adopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor of
inaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion. In this
occupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party of young
men, who had more money than rank, and more vice than either. Montoni
despised the greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents,
rather than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with them
only to make them the instruments of his purposes. Among these, however,
were some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to
his intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive and
haughty air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid minds,
roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had, of course, many and
bitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the degree of his
power; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in such hatred,
than it was possible he could in being esteemed. A feeling so tempered
as that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also had
he thought himself capable of being flattered by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini,
Orsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions,
dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, and
unsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power more than
ostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick to feel an injury,
and relentless in avenging it; cunning and unsearchable in contrivance,
patient and indefatigable in the execution of his schemes. He had a
perfect command of feature and of his passions, of which he had scarcely
any, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the gratification of these,
few considerations had power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstand
the depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief favourite of
Montoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and the
slave of alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet had
neither perseverance or true courage, and was meanly selfish in all his
aims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, he
was the first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans,
but those adopted from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revolted
against all subordination; yet those who were acquainted with his
character, and watched the turn of his passions, could lead him like a
child.

Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his
table, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the
party a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom
Montoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit,
and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had been
requested to be of the dinner party.

Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of
the Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of her
husband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to detain
him abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and envied
them, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was convinced,
that he preferred their society to her own. The rank of Count Morano
procured him that distinction which she refused to the rest of the
company. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and manner, and the
ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet adopted
the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty,
sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with more attention
than pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and fascinating manners
of Signora Livona, however, won her involuntary regard; while the
sweetness of her accents and her air of gentle kindness awakened with
Emily those pleasing affections, which so long had slumbered.

In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni's gondola, and
rowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sun-set still touched the waves,
and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly
expiring, while the dark blue of the upper aether began to twinkle with
stars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothness
of the water, over which she glided, its reflected images--a new heaven
and trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines of towers and
porticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour, interrupted only by
the passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to raise those emotions
to enthusiasm. As she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and to
the remote warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returned
to the memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her
eyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened,
soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly
shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness.
Hers was the CONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen;
and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her cheek,
confirmed the expression of the character.

The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was
far upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own.
The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing her
for some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chords
with the finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine tenor,
accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender sadness. To him, indeed,
might have been applied that beautiful exhortation of an English poet,
had it then existed:

     Strike up, my master,
 But touch the strings with a religious softness!
 Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear
 Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,
 And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Count sung the following

     RONDEAU

 Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
 Upon the ocean's trembling tide;
 Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
 Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:

 Soft as the surge's stealing note,
 That dies along the distant shores,
 Or warbled strain, that sinks remote--
 So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

 True as the wave to Cynthia's ray,
 True as the vessel to the breeze,
 True as the soul to music's sway,
 Or music to Venetian seas:

 Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
 Upon the ocean's trembling breast;
 So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
 So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest.

The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition
of the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the
first line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last,
were such as only exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded,
he gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of
affectation, immediately began to play. She sung a melancholy little
air, one of the popular songs of her native province, with a simplicity
and pathos that made it enchanting. But its well-known melody brought
so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, among which she had
often heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice trembled and
ceased--and the strings of the lute were struck with a disordered hand;
till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly passed on
to a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed almost
to echo to the notes. BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips of her
delighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the air. Among
the compliments that followed, those of the Count were not the least
audible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument to
Signora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung
canzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other
instruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices
dropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a
deep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking
up, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering how
he might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it
as would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he
proposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded,
but which the Count and the other gentlemen as warmly opposed.

Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer
attendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary,
and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat,
returning to Venice, hailed his people. Without troubling himself longer
about an excuse, he seized this opportunity of going thither, and,
committing the ladies to the care of his friends, departed with Orsino,
while Emily, for the first time, saw him go with regret; for she
considered his presence a protection, though she knew not what she
should fear. He landed at St. Mark's, and, hurrying to a Casino, was
soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.

Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni's
boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing
his project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the
stern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moon-light
wave, which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of
instruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the air, and, the boats
meeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The count then explaining
himself, the party removed into his gondola, which was embellished with
all that taste could bestow.

While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band,
following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and
enchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by
Emily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low
but impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could not
misunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and her
manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified, was
too gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to no
person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a look
of displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished for
nothing so much as to return to Venice, but it was near mid-night before
the gondolas approached St. Mark's Place, where the voice of gaiety
and song was loud. The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at a
considerable distance on the water, and, had not a bright moon-light
discovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a stranger would
almost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune's court, and
believed, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves.

They landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the
beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count's
solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supper
with the rest of the party, at his Casino. If any thing could have
dissipated Emily's uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, gaiety,
and novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio's palaces,
and busy with parties of masqueraders.

At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with infinite
taste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily's
reserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interest
to win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension she
had already shewn to him, appeared to be an achievement of no great
difficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of his attention from Emily
to her aunt, who felt too much flattered by the distinction even to
disguise her emotion; and before the party broke up, he had entirely
engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni. Whenever he addressed her, her
ungracious countenance relaxed into smiles, and to whatever he proposed
she assented. He invited her, with the rest of the party, to take
coffee, in his box at the opera, on the following evening, and Emily
heard the invitation accepted, with strong anxiety, concerning the means
of excusing herself from attending Madame Montoni thither.

It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily's surprise
was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun
rising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark's Place was yet crowded with
company. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh
sea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with
regret, had not the Count been present, performing the duty, which he
had imposed upon himself, of escorting them home. There they heard that
Montoni was not yet returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasure
to her apartment, at length released Emily from the fatigue of further
attendance.

Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lost
considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a private
conference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed to
tell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a
sullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian
ladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They
had an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they had
been their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was by
turns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no taste
for such conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimes
exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could not
remain wholly insensible to the captivations of their manner.

In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took
up a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if
she had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various
in expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its
powers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from the
gaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holding
gracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and flowers of some
plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices of
the saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, sketched
her figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a very
interesting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have borne
criticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy and
the heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the beautiful
original, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the sentiment
it conveyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of captivating sweetness,
that she should preserve it as a pledge of her friendship.

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other
engagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, where the
same gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool
breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter
murmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy
groups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature and
circumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased by
the officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon the
moon-light sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingering
for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song of
some gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, her
softened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and of
all that was dear in her native country.

After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and,
while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined
by Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who,
remembering all the attention he had shewn her on the preceding evening,
was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timid
reserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and the other
ladies of her party.

It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily
was not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just
quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is
to the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tears
of admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vast
expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to the
rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, mingled
with their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded into
insignificance.

Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she
wished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the
Count; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other in
our thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, remembered
Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection.

Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which
nothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes
that surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where Count
Morano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself.
His manner, figure and accomplishments, which were generally admired,
Emily would, perhaps, have admired also, had her heart been disengaged
from Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her with
officious attentions, during which she observed some traits in his
character, that prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be good
in it.

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M.
Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife's uncle,
at his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he
should hasten to take possession of that estate and of other effects
bequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel's late
mother; Montoni was related to her by the father's side, and though
he could have had neither claim nor expectation concerning these
possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel's
letter excited.

Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni
had not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after
treating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform
ill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her aunt's foibles
could have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or
figure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her surprise, therefore,
at this match, had been extreme; but since he had made the choice, she
did not suspect that he would so openly have discovered his contempt of
it. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming wealth of Madame
Cheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative poverty, and
highly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to conceal it, till
concealment was no longer necessary. He had been deceived in an affair,
wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superior
cunning of a woman, whose understanding he despised, and to whom he had
sacrificed his pride and his liberty, without saving himself from the
ruin, which had impended over his head. Madame Montoni had contrived
to have the greatest part of what she really did possess, settled upon
herself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate both to her
husband's expectations, and to his necessities, he had converted into
money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a little longer
delude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he had
lost.

The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni's
character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and
occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what had
not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or to
resent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in all
the violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulated
mind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in any
degree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly persisted in
believing, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to be
censured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception of moral
obligation, she seldom understood its force but when it happened to be
violated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely shocked
by a discovery of Montoni's contempt; it remained to be farther reproved
by a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its
furniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told
nothing to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever
they wished. Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than
a princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among the
Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of
going for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to receive some
rents; for it appeared that he had not been there for two years, and
that, during this period, it had been inhabited only by an old servant,
whom he called his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she
not only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering
assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisure
to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image,
and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallee, always blessed with the
memory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and more
soothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay assemblies; they
were a kind of talisman that expelled the poison of temporary evils,
and supported her hopes of happy days: they appeared like a beautiful
landscape, lighted up by a gleam of sun-shine, and seen through a
perspective of dark and rugged rocks.

But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities;
he declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who
encouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend,
and an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of success.
Emily was astonished and highly disgusted at his perseverance, after she
had explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not allow him
to misunderstand them.

He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni's, dining there
almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and all
this, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed
as anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispense
with her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed to be
present.

Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waited
impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, or
Signor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness
seemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino,
Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatever
might be the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared to be of
consequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it his favourite passion
for play, and remained at home the whole night. There was somewhat of
privacy, too, in the manner of Orsino's visits, which had never before
occurred, and which excited not only surprise, but some degree of alarm
in Emily's mind, who had unwillingly discovered much of his character
when he had most endeavoured to disguise it. After these visits, Montoni
was often more thoughtful than usual; sometimes the deep workings of his
mind entirely abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloom
over his visage that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemed
almost to flash fire, and all the energies of his soul appeared to
be roused for some great enterprise. Emily observed these written
characters of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without some
degree of awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power;
but forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to Madame
Montoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but his
usual sternness.

A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and
his lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his
good fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; and
concluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, at
his new estate.

Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter,
and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt,
hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the
ordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his unceasing and
anxious affection. He had lingered at Tholouse for some time after her
departure, that he might indulge the melancholy pleasure of wandering
through the scenes where he had been accustomed to behold her, and had
thence gone to his brother's chateau, which was in the neighbourhood of
La Vallee. Having mentioned this, he added, 'If the duty of attending
my regiment did not require my departure, I know not when I should have
resolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place which is endeared
by the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallee has alone detained
me thus long at Estuviere: I frequently ride thither early in the
morning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes,
which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, and
to hear you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good old
Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I need
not say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerly
I listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess the motive
that first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it was, indeed,
no other than that of gaining admittance into the chateau and gardens,
which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I wander, and meet
your image under every shade: but chiefly I love to sit beneath the
spreading branches of your favourite plane, where once, Emily, we sat
together; where I first ventured to tell you, that I loved. O Emily!
the remembrance of those moments overcomes me--I sit lost in reverie--I
endeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the heaven of
peace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again the
accents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and
hope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we together watched the
rapid current of the Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery
about its source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these moments
passed for ever--will they never more return?'

In another part of his letter he wrote thus. 'You see my letter is dated
on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you will
perceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from France.
To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my own
melancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemed
to destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with you on paper,
and telling you every sentiment and affection of my heart, you almost
appeared to be present. This employment has been from time to time my
chief consolation, and I have deferred sending off my packet, merely
for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, that what I
had written, was written to no purpose till you received it. Whenever my
mind has been more than usually depressed I have come to pour forth its
sorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and, when any little
occurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam of joy to my
spirits, I have hastened to communicate it to you, and have received
reflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my life
and of my thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has been
deeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for
the same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers it
would seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is always, when we
attempt to describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are too
fine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore
passed over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels,
that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may
prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings. You
will pardon all this egotism--for I am a lover.'

'I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my
fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the
necessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander
beneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you
in thought.--La Vallee is let! I have reason to believe this is without
your knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore,
I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that she
was going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the chateau
where she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she,
without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it is
all Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare say she does not even know what
is going forward.'

'Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing
her the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer be
required, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenant
would arrive.'

'Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time before
the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger that
viewed the premises with much curiosity.'

Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this
sentence, Valancourt adds, 'I have received a summons from my regiment,
and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that
are so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning, and
heard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I
should not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you
to be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction I
have endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of your
tenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this is
all I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries, appeared
more melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wished
earnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken another leave
of your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneath
its shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: the
fishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I
went, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without
emotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for ever--surely we shall
live for each other!'

This letter brought many tears to Emily's eyes; tears of tenderness and
satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and
absence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were
passages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as those
describing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of delicate
affection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable time
before her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feel
the force of his intelligence concerning La Vallee. That Mons. Quesnel
should let it, without even consulting her on the measure, both
surprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute
authority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is
true, he had proposed, before she left France, that the chateau should
be let, during her absence, and to the oeconomical prudence of this she
had nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father's
villa to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself
of a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to
her home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then,
strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, had
received from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; and
this she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the place
to be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnel
had regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered every
obstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not even
condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motive
was evident for Montoni's concealing the circumstance from her, if it
had been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; but
the chief subjects of her uneasiness were--the temporary disposal of
La Vallee, and the dismission of her father's old and faithful
servant.--'Poor Theresa,' said Emily, 'thou hadst not saved much in thy
servitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and believd'st
thou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been spent.
Poor Theresa!--now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thy
bread!'

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she
determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very
explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his
cold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquire
whether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter to
Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiring
that she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that the
interview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a part
of M. Quesnel's letter concerning the transactions at La Vallee, and she
obeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.

'I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,' said he when Emily
appeared, 'in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago,
and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.'

'I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,' said Emily.

'It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,' rejoined
Montoni, 'and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed
it will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any
objection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to
circumstances of solid advantage.'

'Granting this, sir,' replied Emily, modestly, 'those of humanity ought
surely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate
upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power to
reject it.'

'It is too late,' said Montoni; 'but since it is so, I am pleased to
observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging
useless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more,
perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in your
sex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the friends
who assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of sentiment,
and will perceive, that they are only the snares of childhood, and
should be vanquished the moment you escape from the nursery. I have not
closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to inform your uncle of
your acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my intention to take
you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you can then
talk over the affair.'

Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

'It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances
of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could
have wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with
less precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some
prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. As
it is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected;
but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other points of the
subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime I
entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,     Sir,
     Your affectionate niece,
     EMILY ST. AUBERT.'

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not object
to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down to
begin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particulars
of her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the most
striking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her emotions on her first
view of Italy; the manners and characters of the people around her, and
some few circumstances of Montoni's conduct. But she avoided even naming
Count Morano, much more the declaration he had made, since she well knew
how tremblingly alive to fear is real love, how jealously watchful of
every circumstance that may affect its interest; and she scrupulously
avoided to give Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing he
had a rival.

On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni's. He was in
an uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of
exultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never observed
before. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve,
but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than to
depress him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with her
alone, and more than once solicited this; but Emily always replied, that
she could hear nothing from him which he would be unwilling to repeat
before the whole company.

In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, and
as the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to his
lips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily,
in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and
concluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the steps
of the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was the Count's
zendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the party, having
arranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, she determined
not to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing him a good evening,
returned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate and entreat,
and Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, for,
without condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to the
zendaletto. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice,
to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he would
spare her the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, was
inflexible.

'This caprice is intolerable,' said he, 'and shall not be indulged:
there is no impropriety in the case.'

At this moment, Emily's dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That
he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding
all she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it
was evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so
long as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to
the disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by
observing that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one
side of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a
pause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily
trembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this
silence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the
hope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni.
To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short
and disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general
observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment,
and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was
not discouraged.

'I have been impatient,' said he, addressing Emily, 'to express my
gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor
Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.'

Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and
displeasure.

'Why,' continued he, 'should you wish to diminish the delight of this
moment by that air of cruel reserve?--Why seek to throw me again into
the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the
kindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity,
the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming
Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your
sentiments.'

'If I ever had disguised them, sir,' said Emily, with recollected
spirit, 'it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had
hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of
alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and
for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the
esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.'

'Astonishing!' exclaimed Montoni: 'this is beyond even my expectation,
though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But
you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count
Morano is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious
moments. Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any
family; yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my
remonstrances, but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled
with.--You shall adhere to the declaration, which you have made me an
agent to convey to the Count.'

'I must certainly mistake you, sir,' said Emily; 'my answers on the
subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of
caprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I
did not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you
also, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now
repeat the declaration.'

The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose
countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled
with indignation.

'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' said the latter. 'Will you
deny your own words, Madam?'

'Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;' said Emily blushing;
'you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.'

'Speak to the point,' rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing
vehemence. 'Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you
acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from
your engagements, and that you accepted the Count's hand?'

'I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.'

'Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle?
if you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What have you
now to say?' continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion of
Emily.

'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I
have been equally mistaken.'

'No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be possible.'

'I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, for
I have had nothing to conceal.'

'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, with trembling emotion.

'Suspend your judgment, Count,' replied Montoni, 'the wiles of a female
heart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION.'

'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing
to give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to
insult.'

'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano.

'Well, well,' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you my confidence; let us hear
this explanation.'

'Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.'

'As many as you please,' said Montoni, contemptuously.

'What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?'

'The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did
well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.'

'I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?'

'What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,' said Montoni.

'Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,' replied Emily.

'We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,' rejoined Montoni,
'in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I must do
you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art of
misunderstanding.'

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer
with becoming firmness. 'Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to
be wholly silent.'

'The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count
Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one--You
have changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he
can have patience and humility enough to wait till to-morrow, he will
probably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience or
the humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect of
my displeasure!'

'Montoni, you are too precipitate,' said the Count, who had listened
to this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;--'Signora, I
entreat your own explanation of this affair!'

'Signor Montoni has said justly,' replied Emily, 'that all explanation
may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myself
to give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat my
late declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessary
for me to repeat it--I never can accept the honour of your alliance.'

'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, 'let
not resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of
Montoni!--Revoke--'

'Offence!' interrupted Montoni--'Count, this language is ridiculous,
this submission is childish!--speak as becomes a man, not as the slave
of a pretty tyrant.'

'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have
already proved insufficient to it.'

'All conversation on this subject, sir,' said Emily, 'is worse than
useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would oblige
me, pursue it no farther.'

'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of
a passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.--I must still
love--still pursue you with unremitting ardour;--when you shall be
convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must
soften into pity and repentance.'

'Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can it either deserve or obtain
the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I have
no present means of escaping?'

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano's countenance, revealed the
strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the
dark resentment, which contrasted his features.

'By heaven this is too much!' suddenly exclaimed the Count; 'Signor
Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for
explanation.'

'From me, sir! you shall have it;' muttered Montoni, 'if your
discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanation
necessary. And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a man of honour is
not to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a
BOY like a puppet.'

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he
had felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of the
insolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her.

'This also,' said he, replying to Montoni's last words, 'this also,
shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have a stronger
enemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St. Aubert
from your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would revenge
your disappointed views upon the innocent.'

'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness, 'is my conduct--my
word'--then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain the
resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in a
subdued voice, 'Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct to
which I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy--as
such, I pass it over in contempt.'

'In contempt, Signor?'

'The respect I owe myself,' rejoined Montoni, 'requires, that I should
converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject in
dispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince you
of your error.'

'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.'

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the
consequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. She
explained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in the
morning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted her solely
concerning the disposal of La Vallee, and concluding with entreating,
that he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and rectify the mistake.

But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and
Count Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking,
however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted from the
immediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion consequently
became less. Montoni desired the Count would order his servants to row
back to Venice, that he might have some private conversation with him;
and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened voice and manner, and eager
to examine into the full extent of his difficulties, complied.

Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present
moments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal
mischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and insulted
her.

Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and
laughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered
again between its stately piazzas. The zendaletto stopped at Montoni's
mansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni took
his arm, and said something in a low voice, on which Morano kissed
the hand he held, notwithstanding Emily's effort to disengage it,
and, wishing her a good evening, with an accent and look she could not
misunderstand, returned to his zendaletto with Montoni.

Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the
unjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance
of Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends and
country. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his profession
to a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her comfort to know,
that there was, at least, one person in the world, who would sympathize
in her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly eagerly to release her.
Yet she determined not to give him unavailing pain by relating the
reasons she had to regret the having rejected his better judgment
concerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce her to
lament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made her reject
his proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching interview with
her uncle she regarded with some degree of hope, for she determined to
represent to him the distresses of her situation, and to entreat that he
would allow her to return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then,
suddenly remembering that her beloved La Vallee, her only home, was no
longer at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she feared that she
had little pity to expect from a man who, like M. Quesnel, could dispose
of it without deigning to consult with her, and could dismiss an aged
and faithful servant, destitute of either support or asylum. But, though
it was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in France, and
few, very few friends there, she determined to return, if possible,
that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose particularly
oppressive conduct towards herself, and general character as to others,
were justly terrible to her imagination. She had no wish to reside with
her uncle, M. Quesnel, since his behaviour to her late father and to
herself, had been uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying to
him she could only obtain an exchange of oppressors; neither had she the
slightest intention of consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for an
immediate marriage, though this would give her a lawful and a generous
protector, for the chief reasons, which had formerly influenced her
conduct, still existed against it, while others, which seemed to justify
the step, would not be done away; and his interest, his fame were at all
times too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, at
this early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One sure,
and proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France.
She knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly
experienced so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn
claim upon her heart, since it contained the remains of her late father.
Here she could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, for
which La Vallee might be let, should expire; or, till the arrangement
of M. Motteville's affairs enabled her so far to estimate the remains of
her fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent for her to reside
there.

Concerning Montoni's conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel,
she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on the
subject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error, as
a means of intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of uniting
her to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she was
extremely anxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and looked
forward with a mixture of impatience, hope and fear, to her approaching
visit.

On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, introduced
the mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, that she had
not joined the party on the water the preceding evening, and at
her abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had passed,
expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had occurred between
Montoni and herself, and solicited her aunt's kind offices in urging him
to give a decisive denial to the count's further addresses; but she
soon perceived, that Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of the late
conversation, when she introduced the present.

'You have no encouragement to expect from me,' said her aunt, 'in these
notions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and think
Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If young
persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it, why,
the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose their
folly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to such a
match as is now offered you?'

'Not any whatever, Madam,' replied Emily, 'and, therefore, at least,
suffer me to be happy in my humility.'

'Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor
brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add,
his fortune did not justify it.'

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent
allusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering her
answer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for some
moments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length she
said, 'My father's pride, Madam, had a noble object--the happiness which
he knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity.
As it never consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to some
persons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, to
others. He never disdained those, who were wretched by poverty
and misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with many
opportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity,
ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory to emulate such
pride.'

'I do not pretend to understand any thing of these high-flown
sentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teach
you a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to despise
happiness.'

'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,' said Emily, 'for wisdom
can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow,
Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that you
wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means of
making me so.'

'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father
thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understand
all these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented to
understand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you and
your father, if that had been included in his education.'

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father's memory,
to despise this speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and
retired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted
yielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. From
every review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow.
To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of Montoni's
unworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity, for the
gratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of the
effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she meditated the
sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim; and of
the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her father's
character, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own.

During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the
departure for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily.
His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should
forbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprised
her, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, Count Morano
neither visited Montoni, or was named by him. Several conjectures arose
in her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them had been
revived, and had ended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she was inclined
to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of his suit
had induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, she suspected that
he had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his visits, and prevailed
with Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the expectation
that gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him the
consent, which he could not hope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears,
till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of
Miarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count, or
the mention of him.

Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening,
that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night,
embarked about an hour before sun-set, with his family, in a barge, for
the Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as it
floated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from her
view, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while its
loftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared on
the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes,
often linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of a
summer's evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded in distance
from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of
cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to
the deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic,
towards the opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach
of sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrances
stealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt
on viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their present
state of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur and
animation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to her
fancy--scenes, once the haunt of heroes--now lonely, and in ruins;
but which still shone, in the poet's strain, in all their youthful
splendour.

As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plains
of Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated the
landscape with the following little story.

     STANZAS

 O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,
 And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain,
 O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led
 His stately camels:  For the ruin'd fane

 Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
 For now the red cloud faded in the west,
 And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew
 Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

 There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound,
 Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
 And wandering shepherds now a shelter found
 Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.

 Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd,
 Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load;
 Partook with them the simple, cool repast,
 And in short vesper gave himself to God.

 From distant lands with merchandise he came,
 His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
 Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
 To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

 For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;
 Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:
 Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell,
 As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r.

 A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song,
 The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air,
 Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along,
 That seem'd to say--'for future worlds prepare.'

 For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard
 Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
 (By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd),
 And distant ruins answer'd to his call.

 While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
 Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;
 And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,
 And there, the flute that chear'd him in the wild.

 The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,
 For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train;
 Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?
 Who calls on him for mercy--calls in vain!

 A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore,
 A crescent sword depended at his side,
 The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
 And infants--at his very look had died!

 The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,
 And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;
 But soft!--a startled camel shook his bell,
 Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.

 Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high!
 Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow;
 When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
 That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

 He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate
 A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,
 Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late,
 Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.

 He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life!
 Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart;
 Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife,
 And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart.

 And now, aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale,
 And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
 And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil,
 Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

 Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams
 Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site;
 The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
 And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

 All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,
 And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he,
 E'er the dim evening steals upon the day,
 His children, wife and happy home shall see.

As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the
rich features and varied colouring of the landscape--the purple hills,
groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and towns
rising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring its
broad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its mouth,
the barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were now to
tow it up the stream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the Adriatic,
and to the dim sail,

     that from the sky-mix'd wave
 Dawns on the sight,

and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes
of the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these
shores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw
strong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades,
and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall groves of
pine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent of oranges, of
flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was diffused upon the
air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a strain of music stole
on the calm, and 'softened into silence.'

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape,
and Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features
gradually vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happy
evenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of twilight
steal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of La Vallee,
and a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits were softened
into melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the low murmur of
the wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of the air, that
trembled only at intervals with distant music:--why else should she, at
these moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with presages
so very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from him,
that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to her
oppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and that the
countries, which separated them, would never more be re-traced by her.
She looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the cause
of this; but apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be called,
which arises from no proof, and which she knew not how to account for,
seized her mind--that she should never see Valancourt again. Though she
knew, that neither Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commands
had lawful power to enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a
superstitious dread, that they would finally prevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily was
at length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, where
refreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenance
of Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to be
the consequence of some conversation she had held with her husband, who
regarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both preserved, for some
time, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel:
'You will not, I hope, persist in disclaiming your knowledge of the
subject of my letter to him?'

'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim
it,' said Emily, 'I had hoped, from your silence, that you was convinced
of your error.'

'You have hoped impossibilities then,' replied Montoni; 'I might as
reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct in
one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.'

Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that she
had hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed no
conviction could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni's conduct had
not been the consequence of mistake, but of design.

Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and
humiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her
station near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rose
from the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at least, the
benevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni had denied her
elsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed a kind of twilight,
that served to shew the dark outline of the shores on either hand, and
the grey surface of the river; till the moon rose from behind a high
palm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The vessel glided
smoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, now and then,
the solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to their
horses; while, from a remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song,

     The sailor sooth'd,
 Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame Quesnel;
considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallee; and then, to
with-hold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself by
discriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape, reposing in
the moon-light. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance,
a building peeping between the moon-light trees, and, as the barge
approached, heard voices speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty
portico of a villa, overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, which
she recollected to be the same, that had formerly been pointed out to
her, as belonging to Madame Quesnel's relative.

The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank to
a lawn. Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico. Montoni
sent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his family. They
found Mons. and Madame Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on sofas in
the portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, and eating fruits
and ices, while some of their servants at a little distance, on
the river's bank, were performing a simple serenade. Emily was now
accustomed to the way of living in this warm country, and was not
surprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in their portico, two hours
after midnight.

The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in the
portico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall,
where a banquet was spread, and servants attended. When the bustle
of this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the little
flutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck with the
singular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to the luxuries
of the season. It was of white marble, and the roof, rising into an
open cupola, was supported by columns of the same material. Two opposite
sides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos, admitted to the
hall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in the centre
a fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to heighten the
fragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries, while its
dashing waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps,
suspended from the pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the interior
part of the hall, leaving the remoter porticos to the softer lustre of
the moon.

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usual
strain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and
then affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had lately
sustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him to
despise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once detected
under this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of Quesnel's mind,
listened to him in contemptuous silence, till he named his niece, and
then they left the portico, and walked away into the gardens.

Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France
(for even the name of her native country was dear to her) and she found
some pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in it. That
country, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to the
mention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named. Madame
Quesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture of Italy,
now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of France, and
endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her auditors by
accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. In
these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, for
she never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed;
and thus the delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all the
luxuries, which surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancy
wandered over the distant scenes of a northern country.

Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spoke
in her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expected
from visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which latter
mention, at least, was merely a retaliating boast, for Emily well knew,
that her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur, and, particularly,
for such as the castle of Udolpho promised. Thus the party continued to
converse, and, as far as civility would permit, to torture each other
by mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in the portico, and were
environed with delights both from nature and art, by which any honest
minds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy imaginations
would have been soothed into enchantment.

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light
tints of morning, gradually expanding, shewed the beautifully declining
forms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretched
at their feet. Then the sun-beams, shooting up from behind the hills,
spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems to impart
repose to all it touches. The landscape no longer gleamed; all its
glowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter features were
still softened and united in the mist of distance, whose sweet effect
was heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the pines and cypresses,
that over-arched the foreground of the river.

The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a
moving picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings,
to shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together with
the piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the tasteful
simplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural treasures,
rendered them gay and striking objects. The swift movement of the boats
down the current, the quick glance of oars in the water, and now and
then the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the sail of
their little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played by
a girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation and
festivity of the scene.

When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party left
the portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrew
Emily's thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and rich
verdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves of
cedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar, the
luxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of shade over
these gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other spicy shrubs
mingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid and various
colouring glowed with increased effect beneath the contrasted umbrage of
the groves. The air also was continually refreshed by rivulets, which,
with more taste than fashion, had been suffered to wander among the
green recesses.

Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distant
landscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark foliage
of the foreground;--the spiral summits of the mountains, touched with
a purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving gradually to their
base; the open valley, marked by no formal lines of art; and the tall
groves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes embellished by a ruined
villa, whose broken columns appeared between the branches of a pine,
that seemed to droop over their fall.

From other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was entirely
changed, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape shifted for the
crowded features and varied colouring of inhabitation.

The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted the
gardens, and retired to repose.

 Hold onto your hats, Shmoopers. This is a super long and twisty chapter. First up: Montoni and his drinking buddies stay out 'til the break of dawn. Meet the rest of his friends: besides Cavigni, there's Bertolini, Orsino, and Verezzi. Oh yeah, and Count Morano. Madame Montoni doesn't really like them. Like everyone who's ever gone to Venice, Emily and the whole gang take a gondola ride. Count Morano is definitely into Emily. He sings her a song. When the group lands at St. Mark's, everyone heads into Count Morano's casino. Morano also figures out that the only way to win Emily is to butter up her auntie. Being a brown-noser might work on Madame Cheron, but not on Emily. She's still all dreamy-eyed over Valancourt. A couple of weeks go by, and Montoni gets a letter from Quesnel. Quesnel is humble-bragging about inheriting a villa after the death of his brother's uncle. Montoni gets a little jealous, because he's also related to Quesnel's brother's uncle. Got that? Emily picks up on the fact that Montoni is treating her aunt pretty rudely. Actually, it doesn't even seem like he likes the old dame. Surprise, surprise: Montoni just wanted to marry Madame Cheron for her money, but it turns out she's not that rich. We told you she was a tricky lady. But everyone's a trickster in this neck of the woods. Montoni's broke, too, which leaves the couple in a sticky situation. New plan: since money's tight, the group will head to Montoni's other residence, a.k.a. the Castle of Udolpho. Of course Montoni has a castle in his back pocket. It's good timing for Emily, because Morano is making his move. She wants to get out of there. While Emily's waiting to hear what's up with going to Udolpho, she notices that Montoni seems to be on the outs with his former buddy Cavigni. Oh, and he's spending a lot of time in secret with his other buddy, Orsino. Em gets a letter from Valancourt that mentions his visit to her old home. Couple of things: La Vallee has been rented out to random strangers and Quesnel has fired the loyal servant, Theresa. Emily goes straight to Montoni with fire in her eyes. She needs him to get a message to Quesnel, ASAP. Cool, Montoni says. Just write a few lines at the end of my letter to Quesnel about the Theresa thing. He also asks her to write a little bit about how she's learned to conquer her emotions about La Vallee and submit to Quesnel's will. The next night, out on the boat, Morano takes some liberties with Em. Turns out, Montoni tricked her into consenting to marriage in the letter. Emily is pretty horrified, but there's nothing she can do to get out of the marriage.

