The Mysteries of Udolpho [174]
he may have good reasons for what he does: and some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well as his gratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, laying her finger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear what she said.
''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor need not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiled picture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter, she would be as little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find.'
'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you again, Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you know any thing of that picture.'
'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the servants have seen it already!'
Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'
'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a little more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'
'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.
'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about her, 'how could we get here?'
'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness. 'Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will go.'
Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance. Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily's disposition from her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of her deserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumph to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pity her. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart, that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunes of her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, called forth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuring cloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in her mind.
Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had not her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by his presence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.
'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could have foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when I married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot? But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing what is for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the best judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married the Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'
Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought of triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain, not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.
'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would have supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutely no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best; I thought
''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor need not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiled picture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter, she would be as little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find.'
'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you again, Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you know any thing of that picture.'
'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the servants have seen it already!'
Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'
'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a little more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'
'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.
'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about her, 'how could we get here?'
'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness. 'Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will go.'
Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance. Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily's disposition from her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of her deserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumph to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pity her. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart, that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunes of her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, called forth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuring cloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in her mind.
Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had not her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by his presence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.
'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could have foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when I married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot? But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing what is for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the best judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married the Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'
Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought of triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom impatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain, not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.
'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would have supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutely no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best; I thought