CHAPTER IX.
Gladly would the Count de Charney have renounced his liberty for the remainder of his days, could he have secured the sentence of passing them at Fenestrella, between Teresa Girardi and her father. He no longer deceived himself. He felt that he loved Teresa as he had never loved before. A sentiment to which his breast had hitherto been a stranger, now penetrated into its depths, impetuous and gentle, sweet and stimulating, like some acid fruit of the tropics, at once sweet and refreshing. His new passion revealed itself not only by transports hitherto unknown, but by the serene glow of a holy tenderness, embracing universal nature; nay, the great Lord and Creator of nature and nature’s works. His brain, his heart, his whole existence, seemed to dilate, as if to embrace the new hopes, projects, and emotions, crowding on his regenerate existence.
Next day, the three friends met again beside Picciola; Girardi and the Count occupying their bench, and Teresa a chair of state, placed opposite them by the gallantry of Ludovico. She had brought with her some task of woman’s work,some strip of delicate embroidery, over which her soft countenance inclined, her graceful head following the movements of her needle; and every now and then raising her eyes and suspending her work, to interpose some playful remark in their grave dissertations. At length, suddenly rising, she crossed over towards her father, threw her arms round his neck, and pressed her lips repeatedly to his reverend locks.
The conversation between the two disputants was not renewed: for Charney was already absorbed in profound meditation. He could not forbear inquiring of himself whether he were beloved in return by Teresa—a question which produced two conflicting sentiments in his bosom. He feared to believe—he trembled to doubt. The flower—his gift—so carefully preserved—the emotion evinced when their hands were accidentally united on the knees of the old man—the tremor with which she had listened to the recital of his impassioned dreams—all this was in his favour. But the words breathed with so tender an inflexion of voice had been pronounced in the presence of her father; what sense, therefore, dared he assign to her tokens of compassion, her deeds of kindness and devotion? Had she not afforded proofs of the same good-will before they had even met—before even an interchange of looks and words had taken place between them? What right has he to interpret in his favour the indications of feeling he has since detected in her deportment?
No matter: of his own attachment, at least, he is certain.Henot only loves Teresa, but has sworn within his heart of hearts to love her through life and death; substituting for an ideal image, henceforward superfluous, one of the most charming realities of human nature.
But the attachment of which he is thus conscious is a secret to be preserved in the inmost archives of his soul: it would be a sin, a crime, to invoke the participation of Teresa in his passion. What right has he to imbitter the happy prospects ofherlife? Are they not destined to liveapart from each other?she, free, happy, in the midst of a world which she embellishes, and where she will doubtless soon confer happiness on another in the bosom of domestic life; whilehe, in his solitary prison, must consecrate himself to eternal solitude and eternal regrets for his momentary happiness.
No! his passion shall be sedulously concealed. He will assume towards Teresa Girardi the demeanour of a person wholly indifferent, or satisfy himself with the calm demonstrations of a prudent and equable friendship. It would be too deep a misfortune forhim—forboth—were he to succeed in engaging her affections.
Full of these fine projects for the future, the first sounds that meet his ear on the cessation of his reverie were the following sentences interchanged between Teresa and her father, the former of whom was exerting all her eloquence to persuade the old man that the moment of his liberation was at hand; while Girardi persisted in expressing a conviction that the remainder of the year would expire without producing any material change in his destinies. “I know the dilatoriness of public functionaries,” said he; “I know the vacillations of government. So little suffices as a pretext for the suspension of justice, and the cooling of a great man’s mercy!”
“If such is your opinion,” cried Teresa, “I will return to-morrow to Turin, to hasten the fulfilment of their promises.”
“What need of so much haste?” demanded the father.
“How, dear father!” she replied, “is it possible that you prefer your mean and narrow chamber, and this wretched court, to your beautiful villa and gardens on the Collina?”
This seeming anxiety on the part of Teresa to leave Fenestrella ought to have convinced Charney that he was beloved, and that the danger that he dreaded for the object of his romantic attachment was already consummated. But the part he had intended to play was now wholly frustrated. Instead of affecting indifference, tranquillity, or even the reserve of a prudent friendship, he manifested only the petulance ofa lover. Teresa, however, remained apparently unconscious of his fit of perversity; and was not deterred by his resentment from repeating, that if the decree of her father’s liberation should be again delayed, it was her duty to set off for Turin, and renew her solicitations to General Menon; nay, even for Paris, for a personal application to the Emperor. Usually so reserved and mild, the fair Piedmontese seemed excited on the present occasion to unusual vivacity.
“I scarcely understand you this morning,” said her father, amazed to observe the gaiety of her deportment in presence of the poor prisoner whom they were about to abandon to his misfortunes; and if her father found something to regret in her demeanour, how much rather the grieved and disappointed Charney!
The same reflections which had perplexed his mind the preceding night had, in fact, been passing also through the mind of Teresa. She had discovered,notthe arrival of Love in her bosom, but that it had long resided there an unsuspected inmate: and though, like Charney, she would willingly have accepted, as regarded her own happiness, the perils and privations with which it was accompanied, like Charney she was reluctant that all these should be inflicted upon another. The delight of loving, the dread of being loved, threw her into a state of mental contradiction, and produced the garrulity in which she sought refuge from herself.
Soon, however, all this constraint, all these efforts to disguise their real sentiments, were suddenly dropped on both sides. After listening attentively to the information imparted by Girardi, who mentioned frequent instances where the pardon of prisoners, though publicly announced, had not been suffered to take effect for many succeeding months, the young people allowed themselves to be convinced; and with mutual and unconcealed delight, began performing projects for the morrow and succeeding days, as if, henceforward, the fortress of Fenestrella were to be the home of their happinessand choice. Restored to the society of Teresa, their guardian angel, the two captives appeared to have but a single earthly misfortune to apprehend, the liberation of one of them to disunite the little party.
Already, the philosophers were resuming their arguments, and Teresa her embroidery. The pale rays of the sun, partially illuminating the little court, fell lightly on the countenance of Girardi’s daughter, while a refreshing breeze played amid the folds of her drapery and the floating ribands by which it was confined. At length, excited by the freshness of the atmosphere, she threw aside her work, rose from her seat, shook out the ringlets of her raven hair, rejoicing in the return of hope and sunshine, when suddenly the postern-door was thrown open, and Captain Morand, accompanied by Ludovico and a municipal officer, made his appearance.
They came to signify to Giacomo Girardi the act of his liberation. He was to quit Fenestrella without delay; a carriage was in waiting at the extremity of the glacis to convey him and his daughter to Turin.
At the moment of the commandant’s arrival, Teresa was standing beside her father, but she instantly sank backward in her chair, resumed her needlework, and, had Charney ventured a look towards her, he would have been startled, on perceiving how instantaneously the hues of life and health had faded from her cheek. But Charney neither stirred nor raised his eyes from the ground, while Girardi was receiving from the hands of the officers those papers and documents which were to restore him, with an unblemished reputation, to his station in society. All was now complete; and there was no longer an excuse for prolonging the liberated prisoner’s preparations for departure.
Ludovico had already brought down from Girardi’s chamber the solitary trunk containing his effects; the officers waited to escort him back to Turin; the hour of parting had irrevocably struck. Rising once from her seat, Teresa began deliberately to put up her working materials, and arrangethe scarf upon her shoulders; she even tried to put on her gloves, but her hands trembled too much to effect her purpose.
The farewell.
The farewell.
The farewell.
Charney stood for a moment paralysed by the blow. Then, arming himself with courage, he exclaimed, as he threw himself into the arms of Girardi—
“Farewell, my dearest father!”
“Farewell,my son! farewell, my beloved son,” faltered the good old man. “Be of good cheer. Rely upon our exertions in your behalf; rely on the steadiness of our affection. Adieu, adieu!”
For some moments longer Girardi held him pressed to his heart; then, by a sudden effort, relinquishing his warm embrace, turned towards Ludovico, and, by way of concealing his own emotion, affected to busy himself by giving in charge to the jailer the friend he was about to leave; to which the poor fellow, perfectly comprehending the old man’s motives, replied only by offering the support of his arm to conduct his faltering steps to the carriage.
Charney, meanwhile, drew near to Teresa for the purpose of a last farewell. Leaning with one hand on the back of her chair, her eyes fixed on the ground, she stood motionless, speechless, as if there were no question of quitting the place. Even when the Count advanced towards her, she remained for some moments without speaking, till, irresistibly moved by his paleness and agitation, she exclaimed, “I call our Picciola to witness that——” But Teresa was not able to complete the sentence; her heart was too full to utter another syllable. One of her gloves at that moment escaped her trembling hands, which Charney picked up; and, ere he restored it, raised it silently to his lips.
“Keep it!” said she, while tears streamed down her cheeks, “keep it till we meet again.”
Another moment, and she was following her father. They were gone! All was dark in the destinies of the Count de Charney. After watching the closing of the postern-door, he stood like one petrified, with his eyes fixed on the spot where they had disappeared; his hand still grasping convulsively the parting pledge bestowed upon him by Teresa.