Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,
than my own,' said Emily. 'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that his
flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may
have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I
can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the
Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you
to repent at your leisure, long ago.'
'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said Emily,
with a heavy sigh. 'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni;
'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to
convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to
necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you
like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is
from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault if
you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind of
a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your ambition?'
'I have no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is to
remain in my present station.'
'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see
you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all
those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be
something like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to
the purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you
know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no
longer.' Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it
would be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the
Count's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then,
desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night.
'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closed
upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad reflections.
For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly unconscious
where she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the room,
its gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on the
door, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously for
some sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it
was past midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up for
Montoni, had retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now
yielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity
of her spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind,
which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her
aunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and to
cross the apartment.