now, never to give the least hint about it.'--'I have,' said Emily,
'and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;--what you have told
has interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I could
prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought so
deserving of the Marchioness.'

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to the
notice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness. 'There is another
picture of her,' added she, 'hanging in a room of the suite, which was
shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and is
much more like you than the miniature.' When Emily expressed a strong
desire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did not like to open
those rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the other
day of ordering them to be opened; of which Dorothee seemed to consider
much, and then she owned, that she should feel less, if she went into
them with Emily first, than otherwise, and at length promised to shew
the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the
narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish
to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee would return
on the following night, when they were not likely to be observed, and
conduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the portrait, she felt
a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which the Marchioness had
died, and which Dorothee had said remained, with the bed and furniture,
just as when the corpse was removed for interment. The solemn emotions,
which the expectation of viewing such a scene had awakened, were
in unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by severe
disappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this
depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her melancholy
inclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which no virtue of
her own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason could
make her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him, whom she had
once esteemed and loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of
the chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,
however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of
the Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of the
music. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken, except by
the