CHAPTER VIII.
In the purified heart of Charney, the blood now flowed more calmly: in his expanded mind, mild and consolatory ideas succeeded each other in gentle gradation. Like the wise Piedmontese, his friend, he was fully alive to the conviction that happiness connects itself indissolubly with love of our fellow-creatures; and in striving to people his imagination with those to whom he was bound by ties of gratitude; the Empress, Girardi, and Ludovico, presented themselves first to his mind. But at length two female shadows became perceptible at either extremity of this rainbow of love, expanding after the storm, just as we see in altar-pieces, two seraphim, with brows inclined, and half-closed wings, supporting the arch of the picture.
One of these shadows was the fairy of his dreams—the maiden Picciola, emanating, fresh, fair, and blooming, from the perfumes of his flower; the other, the guardian angel of his prison—his second providence—Teresa Girardi.
By a singular inconsistency, the former, whose existence was purely ideal, haunted his memory in a fixed, distinct, and positive form; he could discern the varying expression ofher brow, the glittering of her eye, the smile of her lips—such as she had once appeared to him in his dreams, such was she ever manifested. Whereas Teresa, on whom he had never fixed his eyes, or only while still under the influence of a waking dream, under what traits could he summon her to his remembrance? Inherinstance, the countenance of the seraph was veiled; and when Charney, in despair, attempted to raise the veil, it was still the face of Picciola that smiled upon him: of Picciola, multiplying herself as if for the purpose of interrupting the homage he would fain have offered to her rival.
One morning, the prisoner of Fenestrella, though wide awake, fancied himself alarmingly dominated by this strange hallucination. The day was dawning. Having risen from his cheerless bed, he was musing upon Girardi, who, prepared for his speedy release from prison, had infused such tenderness into his adieu of the preceding night, that the Count had been kept all night sleepless by the impression of their approaching separation. After pacing his room for some time in silence, he looked out from his grated window upon the bench of conference, where, only the evening before, he had been engaged with Girardi in conversation relative to his daughter; and lo! through the gray-hued mists of autumn, he fancied he could discern a woman—the figure of a young and graceful woman—seated on the spot. She was alone, and in an inclining attitude; as if engaged in contemplation of the flower before her.
Recalling to mind the probability of Teresa’s arrival, Charney naturally exclaimed, “It is herself! Teresa is arrived! I am about to see her for a moment, and then behold her face no more; and in losing her I shall also be deprived of my venerated companion.”
As he spoke, the figure turned toward his window; and the countenance revealed to him by the movement was no other than the face of his dream-love—of Picciola—still and always,Picciola!
Stupefied by the discovery, he passed his hand over hisbrow, his eyes, his garments, the cold iron bars of his window—in order to be satisfied that he was awake, and thatthistime, at least, it was not a dream.
The young woman rose, moved a few paces towards him, and smiling and blushing, addressed him a confused gesture of salutation; but Charney made no acknowledgment, either of the smile or the gesture by which it was accompanied. He kept his eye fixed upon the graceful form which traversed the misty court; a form in every point resembling that with which his ideal Picciola was invested in the dreams of his solitude. Fancying himself under the influence of delirium, he threw himself on the bed, in hopes of recovering his composure and presence of mind. Some minutes afterwards the door opened, and Ludovico made his appearance.
“Oimé! oimé!—Sad news and great news,eccellenza!” cried he. “One of my birds is about to take flight—not over the walls, indeed, but over the drawbridge. So much the better for him, and the worse for you.”
“Is it to be to-day, then?” demanded Charney, in a tone of emotion.
“I hardly know,Signor Conte; but it can’t be far off; for the act of release has been already signed in Paris, and is known to be on its way to Turin; at least, so the young lady just now told her father in my hearing.”
“How!” cried Charney, starting from his reclining attitude. “She is arrived, then—she ishere!”
“At Fenestrella,eccellenza, since yesterday evening, and provided with a formal order for her admission into the fortress. But there is a special injunction against letting down the drawbridge after hours, for a female; so she was obliged to put off her visit till this morning,Capo di Dio! I knew she was there, but kept the secret as close as wax. Not a syllable did I let fall before the poor old gentleman, or he would not have had a wink of sleep. The night would have seemed as long as ten, had he known that his child was so near. This morning she was up before the sun; and waitedfor admittance at the gates of the citadel, in the morning fogs—like a good soul and good daughter, as she is.”
“And did she not wait some time in the courtyard—seated yonder on the bench?” cried Charney, confounded by all he was hearing. And, rushing to the window, he cast an inquiring glance anew upon the little court, adding, in an altered voice, “But she is gone, I see! she is there no longer!”
“Of course not—now; but shewasthere half an hour ago,” replied the jailer. “She stayed in the court while I went up stairs to prepare her father for the visit; for the poor young lady had heard that people may die of joy. Joy, you see,eccellenza, is like spirituous liquors—a thimblefull, now and then, does a man a power of good; but, let him toss off a whole gourd, and there’s an end of him at once. Now, bless their poor hearts, they are together; and, seeing them so happy,per Bacco, I found myself suddenly all of a no-how; which made me think of your excellency, and how you were about to be deprived of your friend; and so I made off to remind you that Ludovico will still be left you—to say nothing of Picciola. To be sure, poor thing, she is losing her beauty—scarce a leaf left. Butthatis the natural effect of the season. You must not despise her forthat.”
And the jailer quitted the room, without waiting the reply of Charney; who, deeply affected, vainly tried to explain to himself the mysteries of his vision. He was now almost persuaded that the sweet figure by which his dreams were haunted, to which he had assigned the name of Picciola, was the creature of reminiscence—that, absorbed by interest in his plant, he had cast his eyes on Teresa Girardi, as she stood at the grated window, and unwittingly received an impression eventually reproduced by his dreams.
While he was thus reasoning, the murmur of two voices reached him from the stairs; and, in addition to the well-known steps of the old man, gliding over the stones, he could distinguish the light, airy foot of one who scarcely seemed to touch the steps as she descended. At length, the measuredsound ceased at his door. He started. But Girardi made his appearance alone.
“My daughter is here,” said the old man. “She is waiting for us beside your plant.”
Charney followed in silence. He had not courage to articulate a syllable. A consciousness of pain and constraint chased every feeling of pleasure from his heart.
Was this the consequence of being about to present himself before a woman to whom he was so largely indebted, and towards whom it was impossible for him to discharge the obligation; or of shame for his ungraciousness of the morning, in neglecting to return her smile and salutation? As the time of separation from Girardi approached, were his fortitude and resignation forsaking him? No matter what the motive of his embarrassment in presenting himself before Teresa Girardi, no one could have discerned, in his language or demeanour, traces of the brilliant and popular Count de Charney—the ease of the man of the world, the self-possession of the philosopher, had given place to an awkwardness, a hesitation, which called forth, in the answers of Teresa, a correspondent tone of coldness and circumspection.
In spite of all Girardi’s exertions to place his daughter and his friend on an agreeable footing, their conversationturned only upon indifferent subjects, or trite remarks upon the dawning hopes of all parties. Having in some degree recovered from his emotion, Charney read, in the features of the lovely Piedmontese, only the most complete indifference; and persuaded himself that the services she had rendered him had been instigated by the impulses of a generous disposition; or, perhaps, by the commands of her father.
Charney began almost to regret that the interview had taken place; for he felt that he could never more invest her, in his reveries, with her former fascinations. While all three were seated on the bench, Girardi, wrapt in contemplation of his daughter, and Charney giving utterance to a few cold, incoherent remarks, there escaped, from the folds of Teresa’s dress, as she was drawn suddenly forward, by the tender embrace of her father, a medallion of gold and crystal. On stooping to pick it up, Charney could readily discern that one side was occupied by a lock of her father’s gray hair, and the other by a withered flower. He looked again; he gazed anxiously; he could not mistake it. The hidden treasure was the identical flower of Picciola which he had sent her by Ludovico.
Teresa had kept his flower, then—had preserved it—treasured it with the gray hairs of her father—the father whom she adored! The flower of Picciola no longer adorned the raven tresses of the young girl, but rested upon her heart! This discovery produced an instantaneous revolution in the sentiments of Charney. He began to consider the charms of Teresa, as if a new personage had offered herself to his observation—as if he had seen her metamorphosed by enchantment before his eyes.
The Count now perceived that, as she turned her expressive looks towards her father, the two-fold character of tenderness and placidity impressed upon her beauty, was analogous with that of Raphael’s Madonnas—that she was lovely with the loveliness of a pure and perfect soul. Charney retraced, with deliberate admiration, her animated profile—her countenance, expressive of the union of strength andsoftness, energy and timidity. It was long since he had looked upon a new human face—how much longer since he had contemplated, in combination, youth, beauty, and virtue! The spectacle seemed to intoxicate his senses; and, after a glance at the graceful form and perfect symmetry of Teresa Girardi, his wandering eyes fixed themselves once more on the medallion.
“You did not disdain my humble offering, then!” faltered the Count; and faint as was the whisper in which the words were conveyed, they roused the pride of Teresa; who, advancing her hand to receive the trinket, replaced it hurriedly in her dress. But at that moment she was struck by the change of expression visible in the features of the Count; and both their faces became suffused with blushes.
“What is the matter, my dear child?” demanded Girardi, noticing her confusion.
“Nothing!” she replied, with emotion. Then, as if ashamed of playing the hypocrite with her parent, suddenly added, “This medallion, father, contains a lock of your hair.” Then, as she turned towards Charney—“And this flower, sir, is the one you sent me by Ludovico. I have preserved it, and shall keep it forever.”
In her words—in the sound of her voice—in the intuitive modesty which induced her to unite her father and the stranger in her explanations, there was at once so much ingenuousness and purity of feminine instinct, that Charney began for the first time to appreciate the true merits of Teresa Girardi.
The remainder of that happy day elapsed amid effusions of mutual friendship, which every moment seemed to enhance. Independent of the secret power which attracts us towards another, the progress of friendship is always rapid in proportion to the time we know to be allowed us for the cultivation of dawning partiality. This was the first day that Charney and Teresa had conversed together; but they had had occasion to think so much of each other, and so few hours were assigned them to be together, that a mutual acquaintance was speedily accomplished; so that, when Charney, impelledby good breeding and good feeling, would fain have retired, in order to afford an opportunity to the father and daughter, so long separated, to converse together alone, Girardi and Teresa alike opposed the movement of retreat.
“Are you about to leave us?” said the latter. “Do you, then, consider yourself a stranger to my father,or to me?” added the young girl in a tone of gentle reproach. And, in order to make him fully apprehend how little restraint was imposed upon her by his presence, Teresa began to detail to her father all that had befallen her from the moment of her departure from Fenestrella, and the means she had employed to bring together the two captives; addressing, at the conclusion of her narrative, a request to Charney, to relate all the little events of the citadel, and the progress of his studies connected with Picciola. After this appeal, the Count did not hesitate to confess the history of his early miseries—the tedium of his captivity—and the blessing vouchsafed him in the arrival of his plant: while Teresa, gay and naïve, stimulated his confession, by the liveliness of her inquiries and repartees.
Seated between the two, and holding a hand of each—of the daughter thus restored to him, and the friend he was about to leave—the venerable Girardi listened to their discourse with an air of mingled joy and sadness. At one moment, when, by a spontaneous movement, he was about to clasp his hands, those of Charney and Teresa were brought almost into contact, the two young people appeared startled, touched, embarrassed, and, though silent, communicated their emotion to each other by a rapid glance. But, without affectation or prudery, Teresa soon disengaged her hand from that of her father; and, placing it affectionately on his shoulder, looked smilingly towards the Count, as if inviting him to resume his narrative.
Enchanted and emboldened by so much grace and candour, Charney described the reveries produced by the emanations of his plant. How could he forbear allusion to that which constituted the great event of his captivity? Hespoke of the fair being whom he had been induced to worship as the personification of Picciola; and, while tracing her portrait with warmth—or rather transport—the smiles of Teresa gradually disappeared, and her bosom swelled with agitation.
The narrator was careful to assign no name to the soft image he tried to call up before their eyes; but when, in completing the history of the disasters of his plant he reached the moment when, by order of the commandant, the dying Picciola was on the eve of being torn up before his eyes, Teresa could not refrain from a cry of sympathy.
“My poor Picciola!” cried she.
“Thine!” reiterated her father, with a smile.
“Yes,mine! Did I not contribute to her preservation?” persisted Teresa.
And Charney, in confirming her title to the adoption, felt as if, from that moment, a sacred bond of community were established between them for evermore.