he was obliged to mingle, engaged his attention, though they failed to amuse his fancy, and thus gradually weakened the habit of yielding to lamentation, till it appeared less a duty to his love to indulge it. Among his brother officers were many who added, to the ordinary character of a French soldier's gaiety, some of those fascinating qualities which too frequently throw a veil over folly, and sometimes even soften the features of vice into smiles. To these men the reserved and thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacit censure on their own, for which they rallied him when present, and plotted against when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducing him to their own level, and, conceiving it to be a spirited frolic, determined to accomplish it.

Valancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme and intrigue, against which he could not be on his guard. He had not been accustomed to endure ridicule, and he could ill endure its sting; he resented it, and this only drew upon him a louder laugh. To escape from such scenes he fled into solitude, and there the image of Emily met him, and revived the pangs of love and despair. He then sought to renew those tasteful studies which had been the delight of his early years; but his mind had lost the tranquillity which is necessary for their enjoyment. To forget himself, and the grief and anxiety which the idea of her recalled, he would quit his solitude, and again mingle in the crowd-glad of a temporary relief, and rejoicing to snatch amusement for the moment.

Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow, and habit strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes around him seemed to awaken into a new character, and Valancourt to have fallen among them from the clouds.

His figure and address made him a welcome visitor wherever he had been introduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable circles of Paris. Among these was the assembly of the Countess Lacleur, a woman of eminent beauty and captivating manners. She had passed the spring of youth, but her wit prolonged the triumph of its reign, and they mutually assisted the fame of each other; for those who were charmed by her loveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her talents; and others who admired her playful imagination, declared that her personal graces were unrivalled. But her imagination was merely playful, and her wit, if such it could be called, was brilliant rather than just; it dazzled, and its fallacy escaped the detection of the moment; for the accents in which she pronounced it, and the smile that accompanied them, were a spell upon the judgment of the auditors. Her petits soupcrs were the most tasteful of any in Paris, and were frequented by many of the second class of literati. She was fond of mu

sic, was herself a scientific performer, and had frequently concerts at her house. Valancourt who passionately loved music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts, admired her execution, but remembered with a sigh, the eloquent simplicity of Emily's songs, and the natural expression of her manner, which waited not to be approved by the judgment, but found their way at once to the heart.

Madame La Comtesse had often deep play at her house," which she affected to restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known among her friends, that the splendour of her establishment was chiefly supplied from the profits of her tables. But her petits soupers were the most charming imaginable! Here were all the delicacies of the four quarters of the world, all the wit and the lighter efforts of genius, all the graces of conversation-the smiles of beauty, and the charms of music; and Valancourt passed the pleasantest, as well as most dangerous, hours in these parties.

His brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contented himself with giving him letters of introduction to such of his relations residing at Paris, as the latter was not already known to. All these were persons of some distinction; and, as neither the person, mind, nor manners of Valancourt the younger threatened to disgrace their alliance, they received him with as much kindness as their nature, hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of: but their attentions did not extend to acts of real friendship: for they were too much occupied by their own pursuits to feel any interest in his, and thus he was set down in the midst of Paris, in the pride of youth, with an open unsuspicious temper and ardent affections, without one friend to warn him of the dangers to which he was exposed. Emily, who, had she been present, would have saved him from these evils by awakening his heart, and engaging him in worthy pursuits, now only increased his danger:-it was to lose the grief, which the remembrance of her occasioned, that he first sought amusement; and for this end he pursued it, till habit made it an object of abstract interest.

There was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whose assemblies he passed much of his time. She was handsome, still more artful, gay, and fond of intrigue. The society, which she drew round her, was less elegant and more vicious than that of the Countess Lacleur; but as she had address enough to throw a veil, though but a slight one, over the worst part of her character, she was still visited by many persons of what is called distinction. Valancourt was introduced to her parties by two of his brother officers, whose late ridicule he had now forgiven so far, that he could sometimes join in the laugh which a mention of his former manners would renew.

VOL. II.

The gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence of the palaces, entertainments, and equipages that surrounded him-all conspired to dazzle his imagiuation and reanimate his spirits, and the example and maxims of his military associates to delude his mind. Emily's image, indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer the friend, the monitor, that saved him from himself, and to which he retired to weep the sweet, yet melancholy tears of tenderness. When he had recourse to it, it assumed a countenance of mild reproach, that wrung his soul, and called forth tears of unmixed misery; his only escape from which was to forget the object of it, and he endeavoured, therefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could.

Thus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time when Emily was suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of Count Morano, and the unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we leave him.

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CHAPTER XXII.

The image or a wicked, heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his

Does show the mood of a much troubled breast.-KING JOHN. LEAVING the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomy Appenine, where Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt. Looking to him as to her only hope, she recollected with jealous exactness, every assurance and every proof she had witnessed of his affection; read again and again the letters she had received from him; weighed, with intense anxiety the force of every word that spoke of his attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted in his truth.

Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict inquiry concerning the strange circumstance of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was at length obliged to account for it by the reasonable supposition that it was a mischievous trick played off by one of his domestics. His disagreements with Madame Montoni, on the subject of her settlements were now more frequent than ever; he even confined her entirely to her own apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her with much greater severity should she perse: vere in a refusal.

Reason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the choice of a conduct to be adopted. It would have pointed out the danger of irritating, by farther opposition, a man such as Montoni had proved himself to be, and to whose power she had so entirely committed herself; and it would also have told her of what extreme importance to her future comfort it was, to reserve for herself those pos

sessions which would enable her to live independently of Montoni should she ever escape from his immediate control. But she was directed by a more decisive guide than reason the spirit of revenge, which urged her to oppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to obstinacy.

Wholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reduced to solicit the society she so lately rejected; for Emily was the only person, except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse.

Generously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore tried to persuade when she could not convince, and sought, by every gentle means, to induce her to forbear that asperity of reply which so greatly irritated Montoni. The pride of her aunt did sometimes soften to the soothing voice of Emily, and there even were moments when she regarded her affectionate attentions with good will.

The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently compelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any circumstances that had occurred since her departure from Thoulouse. The gentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes of her early happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of a higher world: while the characters and circumstances now passing beneath her eye excited both terror and surprise. She could scarcely have imagined that passions so fierce and so various as those which Montoni exhibited, could have been concentrated in one individual; yet what more surprised her was, that on great occasions he could bend these passions, wild as they were, to the cause of his interest, and generally could disguise in his countenance their operation on his mind; but she had seen him too often when he had thought it unnecessary to conceal his nature, to be deceived on such occasions.

Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered imagination, or like one of those frightful fictions in which the wild genius of the poets sometimes delighted. Reflection brought only regret and anticipation terror. How often did she wish to "steal the lark's wing and mount the swiftest gale," that Languedoc and repose might once more be hers.

Of Count Morano's health she made frequent inquiry; but Annette heard only vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he would never leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be shocked to think that she however innocently, might be the means of his death; and Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion, interpreted it in her own way.

But a circumstance soon occurred which entirely withdrew Annette's attention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity so natural to her. Coming one dato Eymily's apartment, with a countenance full of im

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portance, what can all this mean, ma'amselle? said she, Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should never catch me going on my travels any more! I must think it a fine thing truly, to come abroad, and see foreign parts! I little thought I was coming to be caged up in an old castle, among such dreary mountains, with the chance of being murdured, or, what is as good, having my throat cut.

What can all this mean, indeed, Annette? said Emily, in astonishment.

Ay, ma'amselle, you may look surprised; but you won't believe it perhaps till they have murdered you too. You would not believe about the ghost I told you of, though I showed you the very place where it used to appear. You will believe nothing, ma'amselle.

Not till you speak more reasonaby, Annette; for heaven's sake, explain your meaning. You spoke of murder!

Ay, ma'amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but what signifies explaining? You will not believe. Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen or

heard.

O, I have seen enongh, ma'am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can prove. Poor soul! they will murder him too! I little thought when he sung those sweet verses under my lattice at Venice! Emily looked impatient and displeased.- -Well, ma'amselle! as I was saying, these preparations about the castle and these strange looking people that are calling here every day, and the signor's cruel usage of my lady, and his odd goings on-all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode no good. And he bid me hold my tongue. So, says I, the signor's strangely altered, Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what he was in France; there all so gay! Nobody so gallant to my lady, then; and he could smile, too, upon a poor servant, sometimes, and jeer her, too, good naturedly enough. I remember once, when he said to me, as I was going out of my lady's dressing room-Annette, says he

Never mind what the signor said, interrupted Emily; but tell, at once, the circumstance which has thus alarmed you.

Ay, ma'amselle, rejoined Annette, that is just what Ludovico says: says he, Never mind what the signor says to you. So I told him what I ihought about the signor. He is so strangely altered, said I: for now he is so haughty and so commanding, and so chary with my lady; and if he meets one, he'll scarcely look at one unless it be to frown. So much the better, says Ludovico, so much the better. And to tell you the truth, ma'amselle, I thought this was a very illnatured speech of Ludovico: but I went on. And then, says I, he is always knitting his brows; and if one speaks to him, he does not hear; and then he sits up coun.