THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO
PART 13
VOLUME II
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.
To be
continued
