The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily.She had, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view of Emily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother's orphan child, whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying father.
Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it, and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a marriage, which ought only to make her happy.'I am sure,' said she, 'if I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have been flattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured, and shew a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count, for his condescension.I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly he deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he, I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know yourself a little better.I would not have flattered you, I can tell you, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often tell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'
'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.
These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits sufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching morning.