He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was; while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the portal open, and then the clattering of horses’ hoofs in the court, with the confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whether she should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passed through the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she saw through the door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches into the courts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distance and her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, a few days before. But she stayed not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpet sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men came running into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once more hurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursued by images of horror. She reconsidered Montoni’s manner and words, when he had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her most terrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress, and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when a knocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening which she found old Carlo.
“Dear young lady,” said he, “I have been so flurried, I never once thought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine, and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.”
“Thank you, Carlo,” said Emily, “this is very good of you. Did the Signor remind you of me?”
“No, Signora,” replied Carlo, “his Excellenza has business enough on his hands.” Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, but Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, concerning her.
While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth from a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerning the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told, that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signor believed himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests. “The fighting was about that, Signora,” said Carlo; “but I trust I shall never see such another day in this castle, though strange things are about to be done.”
On her enquiring his meaning, “Ah, Signora!” added he, “it is not for me to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.”
She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were the persons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi, with his party.
Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo; for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear the accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.
An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and sobbing. “O Ludovico—Ludovico!” cried she.
“My poor Annette!” said Emily, and made her sit down.
“Who could have foreseen this, ma’amselle? O miserable, wretched, day—that ever I should live to see it!” and she continued to moan and lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief. “We are continually losing dear friends by death,” said she, with a sigh, that came from her heart. “We must submit to the will of Heaven—our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!”
Annette took the handkerchief from her face.
“You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,” added Emily.
“Yes—yes—ma’amselle,” sobbed Annette, “but I hope I shall meet him again in this—though he is so wounded!”
“Wounded!” exclaimed Emily, “does he live?”
“Yes, ma’am, but—but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to let me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightly himself, till within this hour.”
“Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.”
“Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!”
Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured to encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could give no satisfactory answers.
“I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma’amselle,” said she, “for I could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.”
Annette’s grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant of her fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it.
This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt; but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annette was liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, or impertinence.
Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any occurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni. On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired to bed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her long anxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself, for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her, she rose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber, to breathe a freer air.
All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light, which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, showing imperfectly the outline of the mountains, the western towers of the
