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Jane Austen
Who was she?
What did she write?

Novels
Pride & Prejudice
Sense & Sensibility
Emma
Mansfield Park
Northanger Abbey
Persuasion
Other writings

Film/TV adaptations
Pride & Prejudice
Sense & Sensibility
Emma
Mansfield Park
Northanger Abbey
Persuasion

 

VOLUME 2


CHAPTER I


 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
 My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee.
     GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from
harassing slumbers:  her unquiet mind had, during the night,
presented her with terrific images and obscure circumstances,
concerning her affection and her future life.  She now endeavoured to
chase away the impressions they had left on her fancy; but from
imaginary evils she awoke to the consciousness of real ones. 
Recollecting that she had parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever,
her heart sickened as memory revived.  But she tried to dismiss the
dismal forebodings that crowded on her mind, and to restrain the
sorrow which she could not subdue; efforts which diffused over the
settled melancholy of her countenance an expression of tempered
resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty,
renders them more interesting by a partial concealment.  But Madame
Montoni observed nothing in this countenance except its usual
paleness, which attracted her censure.  She told her niece, that she
had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she would have
more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she could not
renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek became
flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she made no
answer.  Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke
little, and seemed impatient to be gone.

The windows of this room opened upon the garden.  As Emily passed
them, she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the
preceding night:  the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and
she turned hastily away from the object that had awakened it.

The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their
carriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh of
regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt's
residence.

From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-
seen plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the
Pyrenees appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning
sun.  'Dear pleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may
it be ere I see ye again, and how much may happen to make me
miserable in the interval!  Oh, could I now be certain, that I should
ever return to ye, and find that Valancourt still lived for me, I
should go in peace!  He will still gaze on ye, gaze when I am far
away!'

The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to
exclude the view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared
beyond the dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach
window, till at length the closing branches shut them from her sight.

Another object soon caught her attention.  She had scarcely looked at
a person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the
military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of
wheels, he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt
himself, who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the
window of the carriage put a letter into her hand.  He endeavoured to
smile through the despair that overspread his countenance as she
passed on.  The remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's
mind for ever.  She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of
the broken bank, leaning against the high trees that waved over him,
and pursuing the carriage with his eyes.  He waved his hand, and she
continued to gaze till distance confused his figure, and at length
another turn of the road entirely separated him from her sight.

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road,
the travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame
Montoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the
plains of Languedoc.  The presence of this servant restrained Emily
from reading Valancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose
the emotions it might occasion to the observation of any person.  Yet
such was her wish to read this his last communication, that her
trembling hand was every moment on the point of breaking the seal.

At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change
horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine,
that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter.  Though she had
never doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the fresh
assurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over
his letter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they
should be particularly depressed, and then thought of him with much
less anguish than she had done since they parted.  Among some other
requests, which were interesting to her, because expressive of his
tenderness, and because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate
for a while the pain of absence, he entreated she would always think
of him at sunset.  'You will then meet me in thought,' said he; 'I
shall constantly watch the sun-set, and I shall be happy in the
belief, that your eyes are fixed upon the same object with mine, and
that our minds are conversing.  You know not, Emily, the comfort I
promise myself from these moments; but I trust you will experience
it.'

It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening,
watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she
saw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province which
Valancourt inhabited.  After this hour her mind became far more
tranquil and resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni
and her aunt.

During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of
Languedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time
among the mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their
carriages and began to ascend the Alps.  And here such scenes of
sublimity opened upon them as no colours of language must dare to
paint!  Emily's mind was even so much engaged with new and wonderful
images, that they sometimes banished the idea of Valancourt, though
they more frequently revived it.  These brought to her recollection
the prospects among the Pyrenees, which they had admired together,
and had believed nothing could excel in grandeur.  How often did she
wish to express to him the new emotions which this astonishing
scenery awakened, and that he could partake of them!  Sometimes too
she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and almost imagined him
present.  she seemed to have arisen into another world, and to have
left every trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, in that below;
those only of grandeur and sublimity now dilated her mind, and
elevated the affections of her heart.

With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet
Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when,
wandering among the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid
their summits, his last tints die away on their snowy points, and a
solemn obscurity steal over the scene!  And when the last gleam had
faded, she turned her eyes from the west with somewhat of the
melancholy regret that is experienced after the departure of a
beloved friend; while these lonely feelings were heightened by the
spreading gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness
confines attention, which make the general stillness more impressive-
-leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the breeze that lingers
after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams.

During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery
exhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of
cultivation and barrenness.  On the edge of tremendous precipices,
and within the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often
floated, were seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green
pastures and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular
rocks of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine
shrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till
they terminated in the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell,
that thundered along the valley.

The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which
the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake
and extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination,
the verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone,
and the shepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to
pasture on its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to
Arcadian landscape.

As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still
more tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over
which the shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring.  Emily
delighted to observe the snowy tops of the mountains under the
passing influence of the day, blushing with morning, glowing with the
brightness of noon, or just tinted with the purple evening.  The
haunt of man could now only be discovered by the simple hut of the
shepherd and the hunter, or by the rough pine bridge thrown across
the torrent, to assist the latter in his chase of the chamois over
crags where, but for this vestige of man, it would have been believed
only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture.  As Emily gazed upon
one of these perilous bridges, with the cataract foaming beneath it,
some images came to her mind, which she afterwards combined in the
following

     STORIED SONNET

 The weary traveller, who, all night long,
 Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps,
 Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
 Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
 If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
 The mountain-shepherd's solitary home,
 Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,
 What sudden transports to his bosom come!
 But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
 Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
 In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
 He stands, and views in the faint rays
 Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge,
 And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
 Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
 Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
 Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
 His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe
their billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon
the scene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others,
spreading thinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the
landscape--the torrent, whose astounding roar had never failed,
tumbling down the rocky chasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the
dark summits of the pine forests, that stretched mid-way down the
mountains.  But who may describe her rapture, when, having passed
through a sea of vapour, she caught a first view of Italy; when, from
the ridge of one of those tremendous precipices that hang upon Mount
Cenis and guard the entrance of that enchanting country, she looked
down through the lower clouds, and, as they floated away, saw the
grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and, beyond, the plains of
Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, at which appeared, on
the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?

The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her,
the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell
beneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which
skirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong
torrents that, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a
cloud of mist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features
which received a higher character of sublimity from the reposing
beauty of the Italian landscape below, stretching to the wide
horizon, where the same melting blue tint seemed to unite earth and
sky.

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near
whose edge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the
chamois bounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her
fears were mingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration,
astonishment, and awe, as she had never experienced before.

Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to
rest, and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff,
Montoni and Cavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage
over the Alps, Montoni contending that he entered Italy by way of
Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard.  The
subject brought to Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered
in this bold and perilous adventure.  She saw his vast armies winding
among the defiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains,
which at night were lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which
he caused to be carried when he pursued his indefatigable march.  In
the eye of fancy, she perceived the gleam of arms through the
duskiness of night, the glitter of spears and helmets, and the
banners floating dimly on the twilight; while now and then the blast
of a distant trumpet echoed along the defile, and the signal was
answered by a momentary clash of arms.  She looked with horror upon
the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops
below with broken fragments of the mountain; on soldiers and
elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and, as she
listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall, the
terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered to
behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the
descent of others.

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating
in imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles,
such as she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in
the Apennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess. 
Being no longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving
entertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had
mentioned with more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their
discretion, or regard to truth, she determined to give concerts,
though she had neither ear nor taste for music; conversazioni, though
she had no talents for conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in
the gaieties of her parties and the magnificence of her liveries, all
the noblesse of Venice.  This blissful reverie was somewhat obscured,
when she recollected the Signor, her husband, who, though he was not
averse to the profit which sometimes results from such parties, had
always shewn a contempt of the frivolous parade that sometimes
attends them; till she considered that his pride might be gratified
by displaying, among his own friends, in his native city, the wealth
which he had neglected in France; and she courted again the splendid
illusions that had charmed her before.

The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of
winter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring.  The sky began to
assume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of
Italy; patches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked
gaily among the rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging
in tufts from their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and
mountain ash were expanding into foliage.  Descending lower, the
orange and the myrtle, every now and then, appeared in some sunny
nook, with their yellow blossoms peeping from among the dark green of
their leaves, and mingling with the scarlet flowers of the
pomegranate and the paler ones of the arbutus, that ran mantling to
the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures of Piedmont,
where early flocks were cropping the luxuriant herbage of spring.

The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had
dashed for many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road,
now began to assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic
character, as it approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which
the travellers descended with the evening sun; and Emily found
herself once more amid the tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among
flocks and herds, and slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and
with beautiful shrubs, such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly
over the alps above.  The verdure of the pasturage, now varied with
the hues of early flowers, among which were yellow ranunculuses and
pansey violets of delicious fragrance, she had never seen excelled.--
Emily almost wished to become a peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one
of the pleasant embowered cottages which she saw peeping beneath the
cliffs, and to pass her careless hours among these romantic
landscapes.  To the hours, the months, she was to pass under the
dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while those which
were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of
Valancourt, whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe
and admiration on the imagery around him; or wandering pensively
along the vale below, frequently pausing to look back upon the
scenery, and then, his countenance glowing with the poet's fire,
pursuing his way to some overhanging heights.  When she again
considered the time and the distance that were to separate them, that
every step she now took lengthened this distance, her heart sunk, and
the surrounding landscape charmed her no more.

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had
closed, the small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly
guarded this pass of the Alps into Piedmont.  The heights which
command it had, since the invention of artillery, rendered its
fortifications useless; but these romantic heights, seen by moon-
light, with the town below, surrounded by its walls and watchtowers,
and partially illumined, exhibited an interesting picture to Emily. 
Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little
accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought with them the
hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and the
weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily first caught a strain
of Italian music, on Italian ground.  As she sat after supper at a
little window, that opened upon the country, observing an effect of
the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, and
remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with her
father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she
heard from below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and
delicacy of expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender
emotions she was indulging, and both charmed and surprised her. 
Cavigni, who approached the window, smiled at her surprise.  'This is
nothing extraordinary,' said he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at
every inn on our way.  It is one of our landlord's family who plays,
I doubt not,'  Emily, as she listened, thought he could be scarcely
less than a professor of music whom she heard; and the sweet and
plaintive strains soon lulled her into a reverie, from which she was
very unwillingly roused by the raillery of Cavigni, and by the voice
of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to have the carriages ready
at an early hour on the following morning; and added, that he meant
to dine at Turin.

Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level
ground; and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she
had suffered, which she forgot that she was describing to the
companions of her dangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be
beyond the view of these horrid mountains, 'which all the world,'
said she, 'should not tempt me to cross again.'  Complaining of
fatigue she soon retired to rest, and Emily withdrew to her own room,
when she understood from Annette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was
nearly right in his conjecture concerning the musician, who had
awakened the violin with so much taste, for that he was the son of a
peasant inhabiting the neighbouring valley.  'He is going to the
Carnival at Venice,' added Annette, 'for they say he has a fine hand
at playing, and will get a world of money; and the Carnival is just
going to begin:  but for my part, I should like to live among these
pleasant woods and hills, better than in a town; and they say
Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, or hills, or fields, at Venice,
for that it is built in the very middle of the sea.'

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was
making a change for the worse, and could not forbear silently
lamenting, that he should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of
these scenes, to the corrupt ones of that voluptuous city.

When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native
home, with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure,
haunted her fancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the
grand simplicity of nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel
to for ever; and then, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus
ignorantly sporting with his happiness, returned to her thoughts,
and, glad to escape awhile from the pressure of nearer interests, she
indulged her fancy in composing the following lines.

     THE PIEDMONTESE

 Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
 Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
 And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?
 He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string,
 Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
 Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
 And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
 Once more he turns to view his native scene--
 Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
 He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,
 The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
 And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
 Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;
 And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;
 And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
 Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,
 And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight;
 And must he leave the vales he loves so well!
 Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
 No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
 His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
 Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
 And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
 Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er!
 And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,
 Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE
 Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
 Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
 Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales--
 And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring!



CHAPTER II


 TITANIA.  If you will patiently dance in our round,
  And see our moon-light revels, go with us.
     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin. 
The luxuriant plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that
magnificent city, was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees
nine miles in length; but plantations of olives, mulberry and palms,
festooned with vines, mingled with the pastoral scenery, through with
the rapid Po, after its descent from the mountains, wandered to meet
the humble Doria at Turin.  As they advanced towards this city, the
Alps, seen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful
sublimity; chain rising over chain in long succession, their higher
points darkened by the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others
seen shooting up far above them; while their lower steeps, broken
into fantastic forms, were touched with blue and purplish tints,
which, as they changed in light and shade, seemed to open new scenes
to the eye.  To the east stretched the plains of Lombardy, with the
towers of Turin rising at a distance; and beyond, the Apennines,
bounding the horizon.

The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches
and palaces, branching from the grand square, each opening to a
landscape of the distant Alps or Apennines, was not only such as
Emily had never seen in France, but such as she had never imagined.

Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of
any kind, did not comply with his wife's request, that they might
survey some of the palaces; but staying only till the necessary
refreshments could be obtained, they set forward for Venice with all
possible rapidity.  Montoni's manner, during this journey, was grave,
and even haughty; and towards Madame Montoni he was more especially
reserved; but it was not the reserve of respect so much as of pride
and discontent.  Of Emily he took little notice.  With Cavigni his
conversations were commonly on political or military topics, such as
the convulsed state of their country rendered at this time
particularly interesting, Emily observed, that, at the mention of any
daring exploit, Montoni's eyes lost their sullenness, and seemed
instantaneously to gleam with fire; yet they still retained somewhat
of a lurking cunning, and she sometimes thought that their fire
partook more of the glare of malice than the brightness of valour,
though the latter would well have harmonized with the high chivalric
air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gay and gallant
manners, was his inferior.

On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats
for the Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was
somewhat surprised to observe, that Montoni added to his the military
plume, while Cavigni retained only the feather:  which was usually
worn with such caps:  but she at length concluded, that Montoni
assumed this ensign of a soldier for convenience, as a means of
passing with more safety through a country over-run with parties of
the military.

Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war
were frequently visible.  Where the lands had not been suffered to
lie uncultivated, they were often tracked with the steps of the
spoiler; the vines were torn down from the branches that had
supported them, the olives trampled upon the ground, and even the
groves of mulberry trees had been hewn by the enemy to light fires
that destroyed the hamlets and villages of their owners.  Emily
turned her eyes with a sigh from these painful vestiges of
contention, to the Alps of the Grison, that overlooked them to the
north, whose awful solitudes seemed to offer to persecuted man a
secure asylum.

The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at
a distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the
scarcity of provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of
the consequence of intestine war; but they had never reason to be
much alarmed for their immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan
with little interruption of any kind, where they staid not to survey
the grandeur of the city, or even to view its vast cathedral, which
was then building.

Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and
though every thing seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of
death, spread over features, which retain the impression of the last
convulsions.

It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese,
that the travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when,
as the evening was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to
be an army winding onward along the distant plains, whose spears and
other arms caught the last rays of the sun.  As the column advanced
through a part of the road, contracted between two hillocks, some of
the commanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a small eminence,
pointing and making signals for the march; while several of the
officers were riding along the line directing its progress, according
to the signs communicated by those above; and others, separating from
the vanguard, which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly
along the plains at some distance to the right of the army.

As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved
in their caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that
followed them, thought he knew this to be the small army commanded by
the famous captain Utaldo, with whom, as well as with some of the
other chiefs, he was personally acquainted.  He, therefore, gave
orders that the carriages should draw up by the side of the road, to
await their arrival, and give them the pass.  A faint strain of
martial music now stole by, and, gradually strengthening as the
troops approached, Emily distinguished the drums and trumpets, with
the clash of cymbals and of arms, that were struck by a small party,
in time to the march.

Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious
Utaldo, leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general by
waving his cap in the air; which compliment the chief returned by
raising his spear, and then letting it down again suddenly, while
some of his officers, who were riding at a distance from the troops,
came up to the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an old acquaintance. 
The captain himself soon after arriving, his bands halted while he
conversed with Montoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and
from what he said, Emily understood that this was a victorious army,
returning into their own principality; while the numerous waggons,
that accompanied them, contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their
own wounded soldiers, and the prisoners they had taken in battle, who
were to be ransomed when the peace, then negociating between the
neighbouring states, should be ratified.  The chiefs on the following
day were to separate, and each, taking his share of the spoil, was to
return with his own band to his castle.  This was therefore to be an
evening of uncommon and general festivity, in commemoration of the
victory they had accomplished together, and of the farewell which the
commanders were about to take of each other.

Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with
admiration, tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with
the haughtiness of the nobless of those days, and heightened by the
gallantry of their dress, by the plumes towering on their caps, the
armorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak.  Utaldo,
telling Montoni that his army were going to encamp for the night near
a village at only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back and
partake of their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they
should be pleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself,
adding, that it was his design to reach Verona that evening; and,
after some conversation concerning the state of the country towards
that city, they parted.

The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some
hours after sun-set before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful
environs were therefore not seen by Emily till the following morning;
when, leaving that pleasant town at an early hour, they set off for
Padua, where they embarked on the Brenta for Venice.  Here the scene
was entirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had deformed the
plains of the Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace and
elegance.  The verdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued
landscape of beauty, gaiety, and splendour.  Emily gazed with
admiration on the villas of the Venetian noblesse, with their cool
porticos and colonnades, overhung with poplars and cypresses of
majestic height and lively verdure; on their rich orangeries, whose
blossoms perfumed the air, and on the luxuriant willows, that dipped
their light leaves in the wave, and sheltered from the sun the gay
parties whose music came at intervals on the breeze.  The Carnival
did, indeed, appear to extend from Venice along the whole line of
these enchanting shores; the river was gay with boats passing to that
city, exhibiting the fantastic diversity of a masquerade in the
dresses of the people within them; and, towards evening, groups of
dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees.

Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whom
the several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of
their characters, such as served to amuse rather than to inform,
exhibiting his own wit instead of the delineation of truth.  Emily
was sometimes diverted by his conversation; but his gaiety did not
entertain Madame Montoni, as it had formerly done; she was frequently
grave, and Montoni retained his usual reserve.

Nothing could exceed Emily's admiration on her first view of Venice,
with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose
clear surface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. 
The sun, sinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty
mountains of Friuli, which skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic,
with a saffron glow, while on the marble porticos and colonnades of
St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and shades of evening.  As they
glided on, the grander features of this city appeared more
distinctly:  its terraces, crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics,
touched, as they now were, with the splendour of the setting sun,
appeared as if they had been called up from the ocean by the wand of
an enchanter, rather than reared by mortal hands.

The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the
earth stole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides
of the mountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward
beams that had lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple
of evening drew over them, like a thin veil.  How deep, how beautiful
was the tranquillity that wrapped the scene!  All nature seemed to
repose; the finest emotions of the soul were alone awake.  Emily's
eyes filled with tears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she
raised them over the sleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard
the notes of solemn music, that stole over the waters from a
distance.  She listened in still rapture, and no person of the party
broke the charm by an enquiry.  The sounds seemed to grow on the air;
for so smoothly did the barge glide along, that its motion was not
perceivable, and the fairy city appeared approaching to welcome the
strangers.  They now distinguished a female voice, accompanied by a
few instruments, singing a soft and mournful air; and its fine
expression, as sometimes it seemed pleading with the impassioned
tenderness of love, and then languishing into the cadence of hopeless
grief, declared, that it flowed from no feigned sensibility.  Ah!
thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered Valancourt, those strains
come from the heart!

She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had
fallen over the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye,
but, at some distance on the sea, she thought she perceived a
gondola:  a chorus of voices and instruments now swelled on the air--
so sweet, so solemn! it seemed like the hymn of angels descending
through the silence of night!  Now it died away, and fancy almost
beheld the holy choir reascending towards heaven; then again it
swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again died into
silence.  It brought to Emily's recollection some lines of her late
father, and she repeated in a low voice,

     Oft I hear,
 Upon the silence of the midnight air,
 Celestial voices swell in holy chorus
 That bears the soul to heaven!

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain
that had just ceased.  It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till
a general sigh seemed to release the company from their enchantment. 
Emily, however, long indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen
upon her spirits; but the gay and busy scene that appeared, as the
barge approached St. Mark's Place, at length roused her attention. 
The rising moon, which threw a shadowy light upon the terraces, and
illumined the porticos and magnificent arcades that crowned them,
discovered the various company, whose light steps, soft guitars, and
softer voices, echoed through the colonnades.

The music they heard before now passed Montoni's barge, in one of the
gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moon-light
sea, full of gay parties, catching the cool breeze.  Most of these
had music, made sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by
the measured sound of oars, as they dashed the sparkling tide.  Emily
gazed, and listened, and thought herself in a fairy scene; even
Madame Montoni was pleased; Montoni congratulated himself on his
return to Venice, which he called the first city in the world, and
Cavigni was more gay and animated than ever.

The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni's mansion was
situated.  And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as
her imagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the
palaces of Sansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves. 
The air bore no sounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along each
margin of the canal, and from gondolas on its surface, while groups
of masks were seen dancing on the moon-light terraces, and seemed
almost to realize the romance of fairyland.

The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence a
servant of Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party
disembarked.  From the portico they passed a noble hall to a stair-
case of marble, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a style of
magnificence that surprised Emily.  The walls and ceilings were
adorned with historical and allegorical paintings, in fresco; silver
tripods, depending from chains of the same metal, illumined the
apartment, the floor of which was covered with Indian mats painted in
a variety of colours and devices; the couches and drapery of the
lattices were of pale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green
and gold.  Balcony lattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose
a confusion of voices and of musical instruments, and the breeze that
gave freshness to the apartment.  Emily, considering the gloomy
temper of Montoni, looked upon the splendid furniture of this house
with surprise, and remembered the report of his being a man of broken
fortune, with astonishment.  'Ah!' said she to herself, 'if
Valancourt could but see this mansion, what peace would it give him! 
He would then be convinced that the report was groundless.'

Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni
was restless and discontented, and did not even observe the civility
of bidding her welcome to her home.

Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni,
went out to mingle in the scenes of the evening.  Madame then became
serious and thoughtful.  Emily, who was charmed with every thing she
saw, endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection had not, with Madame
Montoni, subdued caprice and ill-humour, and her answers discovered
so much of both, that Emily gave up the attempt of diverting her, and
withdrew to a lattice, to amuse herself with the scene without, so
new and so enchanting.

The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on
the terrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments.  The
girl, who struck the guitar, and another, who flourished a
tambourine, passed on in a dancing step, and with a light grace and
gaiety of heart, that would have subdued the goddess of spleen in her
worst humour.  After these came a group of fantastic figures, some
dressed as gondolieri, others as minstrels, while others seemed to
defy all description.  They sung in parts, their voices accompanied
by a few soft instruments.  At a little distance from the portico
they stopped, and Emily distinguished the verses of Ariosto.  They
sung of the wars of the Moors against Charlemagne, and then of the
woes of Orlando:  afterwards the measure changed, and the melancholy
sweetness of Petrarch succeeded.  The magic of his grief was assisted
by all that Italian music and Italian expression, heightened by the
enchantments of Venetian moonlight, could give.

Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears
flowed silently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to
Valancourt.  Each succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness
than the last, seemed to bind the spell of melancholy:  with extreme
regret she saw the musicians move on, and her attention followed the
strain till the last faint warble died in air.  She then remained
sunk in that pensive tranquillity which soft music leaves on the
mind--a state like that produced by the view of a beautiful landscape
by moon-light, or by the recollection of scenes marked with the
tenderness of friends lost for ever, and with sorrows, which time has
mellowed into mild regret.  Such scenes are indeed, to the mind, like
'those faint traces which the memory bears of music that is past'.

Other sounds soon awakened her attention:  it was the solemn harmony
of horns, that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas
arrange themselves along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her
veil, and, stepping into the balcony, discerned, in the distant
perspective of the canal, something like a procession, floating on
the light surface of the water:  as it approached, the horns and
other instruments mingled sweetly, and soon after the fabled deities
of the city seemed to have arisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with
Venice personified as his queen, came on the undulating waves,
surrounded by tritons and sea-nymphs.  The fantastic splendour of
this spectacle, together with the grandeur of the surrounding
palaces, appeared like the vision of a poet suddenly embodied, and
the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily's mind, lingered
there long after the procession had passed away.  She indulged
herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights of a sea-
nymph, till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality,
and plunge into the green wave to participate them.

'How delightful,' said she, 'to live amidst the coral bowers and
crystal caverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to
the sounding waters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and
then, after sun-set, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild
rocks and along sequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive
wanderer comes to weep!  Then would I soothe his sorrows with my
sweet music, and offer him from a shell some of the delicious fruit
that hangs round Neptune's palace.'

She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could
not forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her
conviction of the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would
have expressed, could she have been made acquainted with them.

After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she
at length retired to rest.  If Emily had admired the magnificence of
the saloon, she was not less surprised, on observing the half-
furnished and forlorn appearance of the apartments she passed in the
way to her chamber, whither she went through long suites of noble
rooms, that seemed, from their desolate aspect, to have been
unoccupied for many years.  On the walls of some were the faded
remains of tapestry; from others, painted in fresco, the damps had
almost withdrawn both colours and design.  At length she reached her
own chamber, spacious, desolate, and lofty, like the rest, with high
lattices that opened towards the Adriatic.  It brought gloomy images
to her mind, but the view of the Adriatic soon gave her others more
airy, among which was that of the sea-nymph, whose delights she had
before amused herself with picturing; and, anxious to escape from
serious reflections, she now endeavoured to throw her fanciful ideas
into a train, and concluded the hour with composing the following
lines:

     THE SEA-NYMPH

 Down, down a thousand fathom deep,
 Among the sounding seas I go;
 Play round the foot of ev'ry steep
 Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

 There, within their secret cares,
 I hear the mighty rivers roar;
 And guide their streams through Neptune's waves
 To bless the green earth's inmost shore:

 And bid the freshen'd waters glide,
 For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook,
 Through winding woods and pastures wide,
 And many a wild, romantic nook.

 For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,
 Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,
 And sing my name, and garlands weave
 To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

 In coral bow'rs I love to lie,
 And hear the surges roll above,
 And through the waters view on high
 The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

 And oft at midnight's stillest hour,
 When summer seas the vessel lave,
 I love to prove my charmful pow'r
 While floating on the moon-light wave.

 And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
 And the sad lover musing leans
 O'er the ship's side, I breathe around
 Such strains as speak no mortal means!
 
 O'er the dim waves his searching eye
 Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade;
 Above--the moon and azure sky;
 Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!

 Sometimes, a single note I swell,
 That, softly sweet, at distance dies;
 Then wake the magic of my shell,
 And choral voices round me rise!

 The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain,
 Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
 O'er the high deck, but list in vain;
 My song is hush'd, my wonders end!

 Within the mountain's woody bay,
 Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
 At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
 I dance upon the lapsing tides:

 And with my sister-nymphs I sport,
 Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods;
 Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
 Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.

 In cool arcades and glassy halls
 We pass the sultry hours of noon,
 Beyond wherever sun-beam falls,
 Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

 The while we chant our ditties sweet
 To some soft shell that warbles near;
 Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet,
 That glide along our halls so clear.

 There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
 And ruby red, and em'rald green,
 Dart from the domes a changing hue,
 And sparry columns deck the scene.

 When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep,
 And long, long peals of thunder sound,
 On some high cliff my watch I keep
 O'er all the restless seas around:

 Till on the ridgy wave afar
 Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
 Spreading the white foam in the air,
 With sail and top-mast bending low.

 Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,
 My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn,
 To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
 And hush the sailor's fearful groan.

 And if too late I reach its side
 To save it from the 'whelming surge,
 I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
 To bear the crew where isles emerge.

 Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
 While round the desert coast I go,
 With warbled songs they faintly hear,
 Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

 My music leads to lofty groves,
 That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
 Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
 And closing boughs the tempest brave.

 Then, from the air spirits obey
 My potent voice they love so well,
 And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
 While strains more sweet at distance swell.

 And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
 Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart,
 Till from the waves the storms retreat,
 And o'er the east the day-beams dart.

 Neptune for this oft binds me fast
 To rocks below, with coral chain,
 Till all the tempest's over-past,
 And drowning seamen cry in vain.

 Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
 Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,
 To the still sands, where fairies play;
 There, in cool seas, I love to lave.



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 said, 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,
intr