Convulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing accents of an
agonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stood appalled, and looked through
the gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The lamentations
continued. Pity now began to subdue terror; it was possible she might
administer comfort to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy,
and she laid her hand on the door. While she hesitated she thought
she knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having,
therefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door,
within which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partial
light appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it, the
appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table, weeping,
and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and she paused.
Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could
not distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not
allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame
Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by her
own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to know
what occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late an
hour to her aunt's dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings by
surprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening to a
private discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, after
some further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearer
interests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt,
respecting Madame Montoni.
Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the
servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or
affected to be so, concerning the Count's intended stay at the castle.
They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed,
and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder how
their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness of
night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for any
other purpose but that of shewing the dreariness of the mountains.
Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisy
petitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table.
'And now, ma'amselle,' added she, 'I am so sleepy!--I am sure, if you
was so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.'
Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also
waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it
appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she
determined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her
gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized her
spirits, and she hesitated. 'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep,
Annette,' said she, 'for I fear it will be very long before I forget
myself in sleep.' 'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle,' said Annette. 'But, before you go,' rejoined Emily, 'let me ask you--Had Signor
Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?' 'O no, ma'am, they were alone together.' 'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room, since you left me?'