on
herself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate both to her
husband's expectations, and to his necessities, he had converted into
money, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a little longer
delude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he had
lost.

The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni's
character and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and
occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what had
not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or to
resent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in all
the violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulated
mind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in any
degree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly persisted in
believing, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to be
censured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception of moral
obligation, she seldom understood its force but when it happened to be
violated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely shocked
by a discovery of Montoni's contempt; it remained to be farther reproved
by a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its
furniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told
nothing to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever
they wished. Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than
a princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among the
Apennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of
going for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to receive some
rents; for it appeared that he had not been there for two years, and
that, during this period, it had been inhabited only by an old servant,
whom he called his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she
not only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering
assiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisure
to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image,
and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallee, always blessed with the
memory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and more
soothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay assemblies; they
were a kind of talisman that expe