Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light held up to show the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not half of it. “Why do you hesitate?” said Emily, “let me see whither this room leads.”
Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was, seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the damps, and with age.
“How cold these rooms are, ma’amselle!” said Annette: “nobody has lived in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.”
“They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps,” said Emily, passing on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.—He was darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily over several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black silk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. “Holy Virgin! what can this mean?” exclaimed Annette. “This is surely the picture they told me of at Venice.”
“What picture?” said Emily. “Why a picture—a picture,” replied Annette, hesitatingly—“but I never could make out exactly what it was about, either.”
“Remove the veil, Annette.”
“What! I, ma’amselle!—I! not for the world!” Emily, turning round, saw Annette’s countenance grow pale. “And pray, what have you heard of this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?” said she. “Nothing, ma’amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.”
“Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light, Annette, while I lift the veil.” Annette took the light, and immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily’s call to stay, who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her. “What is the reason of this, Annette?” said Emily, when she overtook her, “what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you so unwilling to stay when I bid you?”
“I don’t know what is the reason, ma’amselle,” replied Annette, “nor anything about the picture, only I have heard there is something very dreadful belonging to it—and that it has been covered up in black ever since—and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years—and it somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montoni came to the possession of it—and—”
“Well, Annette,” said Emily, smiling, “I perceive it is as you say—that you know nothing about the picture.”