“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 tomorrow, he will probably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience nor 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
