Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was
likely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a
cottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die. Emily's
countenance discovered her emotion.
'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will disguise
themselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or I
am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enough
to hate him.' 'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but certainly
I do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person
dying by violent means.' 'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'
Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'To
be sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into a
lady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable
to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle
comes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn round, and draw
his sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!--To be sure it was
very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did
not know what he was about.' 'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and
her lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'we saw and heard enough of
this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'
'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be as
prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.' '
Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be about
some folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you so
deceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and not
to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to love
her; but--' 'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily,
gravely. 'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do, you
would not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor and
her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always advised
him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased to call
them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient, whether you
would, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand times, and
I have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might have felt a
little for other people, and--'