CHAPTER VI.
During this tedious interval, the unhappy Charney was counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds, with the utmost impatience: he felt as if the minutest divisions of time were maliciously heaping themselves together, to weigh down the head of his devoted flower!
Two days had now elapsed. The messenger brought back no tidings; and even the venerable Girardi was growing uneasy, and beginning to deduce evil auguries from the absence of his daughter. Hitherto, however, he had not named his messenger to the Count; and, while trying to awaken hope in the heart of his companion, experienced the mortification of hearing accusations against the zeal and fidelity of the person to whom the mission had been intrusted. Girardi could no longer refrain from accusing himself in secret of having hazarded the safety of his child. “Teresa, my daughter, my dear daughter!” he exclaimed, amid the stillness of his gloomy chamber, “what—what has become of you?”And, lo! the third day came, and no Teresa made her appearance.
When the fourth arrived, Girardi had not strength to show himself at the window. Charney could not even catch a glimpse of his fellow-prisoner; but had he lent a more attentive ear, he might, perhaps, have overheard the supplications, broken by sobs, addressed to Heaven by the poor old man, for the safety of his only child. A dark veil of misery seemed suddenly to have overspread that little spot; where, but a short time before, in spite of the absence of liberty, cheerfulness and contentment diffused their enlivening sunshine.
The very plant was progressing rapidly to its last; and Charney found himself compelled to watch over the dying moments of his Picciola. He had now a double cause for affliction: a dread of losing the object of his attachment, and of having degraded himself by useless humiliation—if he should have humbled himself in the dust, only to be repulsed from the footstool of the usurper.
As if the whole world were in a conspiracy against him, Ludovico, formerly so kind, so communicative, so genuine, seemed unwilling now to address to him a single word. Taciturn and morose, the jailer came and went, passed through the court, or returned by the winding staircase, with his pipe in his mouth, as if to avoid uttering a syllable. He seemed to have taken a spite against the affliction of his captive. The fact was, that from the moment the refusal of the commandant had been made known, the jailer began to prepare for the moment which he foresaw was about to take place before him, the alternative of his duty and his inclination. Duty, he knew, must eventually prevail; and he affected sullenness and brutality, by way of gaining courage for the effort. Such is the custom of persons unrefined by the polish of education. In fulfilling whatever harsh functions may be assigned them, they try to extinguish every generous impulse in their souls, rather than soften them by courtesy of deportment. Poor Ludovico’s goodness of heart was rarely demonstrated inwords; and where kindlydeedswere interdicted bythose in authority over him, his secret compassion usually found vent in surliness towards the very victim exciting his commiseration. If his ill-humour should call forth resentment, so much the better: his duty became all the easier. War is indispensable between victim and executioner, prisoner and jailer.
When the dinner hour arrived, Ludovico, finding Charney transfixed in mournful contemplation beside his plant, took care not to present himself in the gay mood with which he was wont to accost the Count; sometimes sportively addressing his god-daughter as “Giovanetta, fanciuletta,” or inquiring after the health of the “Count and Countess;” but, traversing the court in haste, without noticing his prisoner, he pretends to suppose him in the chamber above. By some accidental movement, however, on the part of Charney, Ludovico suddenly found himself face to face with the captive; and was shocked to perceive the change which the lapse of a few days had effected in his countenance. Impatience and anxiety had furrowed his brow, and discoloured his lips, and wasted his cheeks; while the disorder of his hair and beard served to increase the wildness of his aspect. Against his will, Ludovico stood motionless, contemplating these melancholy changes; but, suddenly, calling to mind his previous resolutions, he cast an eye upon the flower, winked ironically, shrugged his shoulders, whistled a lively air, and was about to take his departure, when Charney murmured, in a scarcely recognisable voice, “What injury have I done to you, Ludovico?”
“Me!—done tome! None, that I know of,” replied the jailer, more deeply touched than he cared to show, by the plaintiveness of this apostrophe.
“In that case,” said the Count, advancing towards him and seizing him by the hand, “be still my friend! Aid me while there is yet time! I have found means of evading all objections! The commandant can have no farther scruples—nay, he need not know a word of the matter. Procure me only a box of earth—we will gently raise the stones for a moment and transplant the flower——”
“Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!” interrupted Ludovico, drawing back his hand. “The devil take the gilly-flower, for aught I care! She has done mischief enough already; beginning with yourself, who are about, I see, to have another fit of illness. Better make a pitcher of tisane of her before ’tis too late.”
Charney replied by an eloquent glance of scorn and indignation.
“If it were only yourself who had to suffer,” resumed Ludovico, “you would have yourself to thank, and there would be an end on’t. But there is a poor old man, whom you have deprived of his daughter; for Signor Girardi will see no more of his unhappy Teresa.”
“Deprived of his daughter!” cried the Count, his eyes dilating with horror, “how?—in what manner?”
“Ay!how?in what manner?” pursued the jailer, setting down his basket of provisions, and taking the attitude of one about to administer a harsh reprimand. “People lay the whip to the horses, and pretend to wonder when the carriage rolls on. People let fly the stiletto, and pretend to wonder when blood flows from the wound.Trondidio! O che frascheria!You choose to write to the Emperor—’twas your own affair: you wrote. Well and good! You infringed the discipline of the prison, and the commandant will find ’tis time to punish you. Well and good again. But, because you must needs have a trusty messenger to convey your unlucky letter, nothing less wouldserve you than to employ thepovera damigellaon your fool’s errand!”
“How!—you mean that Girardi’s daughter——”
“Ay, ay! open your eyes, and look surprised,” interrupted Ludovico. “Did you suppose that your correspondence with the Emperor was to be conveyed by the telegraph? The telegraph, sir, has got other business on hand. All that I have got to tell you is, that the commandant has discovered the whole plot; perhaps through the guide (for theGiovanacould not hazard herself alone on such an expedition). And so she is forbid to re-enter the fortress. Her poor father will behold her face no more. And through whose fault, I should like to know?”
Charney covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.
“Unhappy Girardi! have I, indeed, deprived thee of thine only consolation?” cried he, at last. Then, turning to Ludovico, he inquired whether the old man was apprised of what had befallen him.
“He has known it since yesterday,” replied the jailer; “and no doubt loves you all the better. But make haste! your dinner is getting cold!”
Charney, overwhelmed with grief, sank upon his bench. A momentary pang suggested to him to crush Picciola at once, executing retributive justice upon her with his own hand. But he had not courage for a deed so ruthless; and a faint hope already seemed to glimmer in the distance, for his favourite. The young maiden, who had thus generously devoted herself to serve him, must be already returned. Perhaps she had been able to approach the Emperor? Yes! doubtless she has been admitted to the honour of an audience; and it is this discovery which has so irritated the commandant against her. The commandant may possibly have in his possession an order for the liberation of Picciola! In that case how dares he venture on further delay? The commands of the Emperormustbe obeyed. “Blessings, blessings,” thought Charney, “on the noble girl who hasbefriended us—the girl whom I have been the means of separating from her father! Teresa! sweet Teresa! how willingly would I sacrifice half my existence for thy sake—for thy happiness—nay, what would Inotgive for the mere power of opening to thee once again the gates of the fortress of Fenestrella!”