CHAPTER VI.
As autumn approached, Charney could not forbear expressing to his friend, as they sat together on the Bench of Conference, his regret at losing all hopes of Picciola’s second flowering, and his lamentations over her last blossom.
Girardi immediately attempted to supply the loss by a dissertation on the fructification of plants, and the evidence thereby afforded of the intervention of an all-wise Providence.
Girardi first alluded to the winged form of the seeds of certain plants, whose foliage, large and complicated, would oppose their dispersion, but for the feathery tuft attached to each, which causes them to float in the atmosphere; and described the elastic pods in which others are enclosed, which, opening by a sudden spring, at the moment of maturity, discharge the seed to a distance. “These wings, these springs,” observed the old man, “are hands and feet bestowed upon them by the Almighty, that they may reach their destined place, and germinate in the sunshine. What human eye, for instance,” said he, “is able to follow, in their aërial flight,the membranous seeds of the elm, the maple, the pine, the ash—circling in the atmosphere amid volumes of other seeds, rising by their own buoyancy, and apparently flying in search of the birds, of which they are to form the nourishment?”
The old man next proceeded to explain the phenomena of aquatic plants; how the seeds of those destined for the adornment of brooks, or the banks of lakes or ponds, are endowed with a form enabling them to float upon the water, so as to deposit themselves in various parts of the beach, or cross from one bank to another; while such as are intended to take root in the bed of the river fall at once by their own weight to the bottom, and give birth to reeds and rushes, or those beautiful water-lilies, whose roots are in the mud beneath, while their large green shining leaves, and snow-white blossoms, float in pride and glory upon the bosom of the waters. The vallisneria was not forgotten; the male and female plants of which being disunited, the latter uncoils her long spiral peduncle, to raise her flower above the surface of the stream, while the male, unpossessed of a similar faculty, breaks its fragile flower-stalk, and rises spontaneously to the surface, to accomplish the act of fecundation.
“How is it,” cried Charney, “that men remain insensible to the existence of these wondrous prodigies of nature?”
And the old man rejoiced at the exclamation, as a proof that his lessons were not shed upon a barren and ungrateful soil.
“Tell me,” demanded the Count, “has the insect creation, to which your studies have been peculiarly addressed, furnished you with facts as curious as those for which I am indebted to my Picciola?”
“Socurious,” replied Girardi, “that you will not fully appreciate even the marvels of Picciola till you have become acquainted with the hosts of animated beings which hover over her verdant branches. You will then learn to admire the secret laws which connect the plant with the insect, the insect with the plant; and perceive that ‘order is Heaven’sfirst law,’ and that one vast intelligence influences the whole creation.”
Girardi was proceeding to enlarge upon the harmony of the universe, when, pausing suddenly, he pointed out to his companion a brilliant and beautiful butterfly, poised on one of the twigs of his plant, with a peculiar quivering of the wings. “See!” cried he, “Picciola hastens to expound my theory! An engagement has just been contracted between her and yonder insect, which is now consigning its posterity to her guardianship.”
And when the butterfly flew away, Charney verified the assertion by examining a little group of eggs, attached by a viscous substance to the bark.
“Do you imagine,” inquired Girardi, “that it is by chance the butterfly has proceeded hither, to intrust to Picciola this precious deposit? On the contrary, Nature has assigned to every plant analogies with certain insects. Every plant has its insect to lodge, its insect to feed. Admire the long chain of connexion between them! This butterfly, when a caterpillar, was nourished on the substance of a plant of the same species as Picciola; and after undergoing its appointed transformations, and becoming a butterfly, it fluttered faithless from flower to flower, sipping the sweets of a thousand different nectaries. But no sooner did the moment of maturity arrive for a creature that never beheld its mother, and will never behold its children (for its task fulfilled, it is now about to die), than, by an instinct surer than the best lessons of experience, it flew hither to deposit its progeny on a plant similar to that by which, under a different form and in a different season, it was fed and protected. Instinctively conscious that little caterpillars will emerge from its eggs, it forgets, for their sake, the habits it has acquired as a butterfly!
“Who taught her all this? Who endowed her with memory, powers of reasoning, and recognising the peculiarities of a vegetable, whose present foliage bears no resemblance to that which it bore during the spring? The most experienced botanist is often mistaken—the insect, never!”
Charney involuntarily testified his surprise.
“You have still more to learn,” interrupted Girardi. “Examine the branch selected by the insect. It is one of the largest and strongest on the tree; not one of the new shoots, likely to be decayed by frost during the winter, or broken by the wind. All this has been foreseen by the insect. Whence did it derive such prescience?”
“Do you not in some degree deceive yourself, my dear friend?” demanded Charney, unwilling to avow how much he was confounded by these discoveries.
“Peace, sceptic, peace!” replied the old man, with an accusing smile. “You will admit, at least, that seeing is believing! Picciola has nowherpart to play. The foresight of the insect is not greater than that with which Nature endows the plant towards the legacy bequeathed by the butterfly; at the return of spring we will verify the prodigy together. The moment the plant puts forth its leaves, the tiny eggs will break, and emit the larvæ they contain: a law of harmony regulates the vegetation of the plant in common with the vitality of the insect. Were the larvæ to appear first, there would be no food for them; were the leaves to precede them, they would have acquired too firm a consistency for their feeble powers. But Nature, provident over all, causes both plant and insect to develop themselves at the same moment, to grow together, and together attain their maturity; so that the wings and flowers of each are simultaneous in their display of beauty.”
“Another lesson derived from my gentle Picciola!” murmured the astonished Charney; and conviction entered into his soul.
Thus passed the days of the captives, in mutual solace and instruction; and when, every evening, the hour arrivedfor retreating singly into the camera of each, to wait the hour of rest, the same object unconsciously occupied their meditations; for Charney thought of Teresa, and Girardi of his daughter, exhausting their minds in conjecture as to her present destiny.
The young girl herself, meanwhile, was not inactive on their behalf. Her first impulse had been to follow the Emperor to Milan; where Teresa soon discovered that it is as difficult to penetrate through the antechamber of royalty as through the ranks of an army. The friends of Girardi, however, roused by her efforts, renewed their applications, and having undertaken to procure, at no remote period, the liberation of the captive, his daughter, somewhat reassured, returned to Turin, where an asylum was offered her in the house of a near relation.
The husband of this relative happened to be the librarian of the city; and to him did Menon address himself, to select the botanical works destined for the use of the prisoner of Fenestrella. It was no difficult matter for Teresa to infer from the nature of the study to whom these books were destined; and she accordingly managed to slip into one of the volumes the mysterious despatch, which, even if discovered by the commandant, was not of a nature to compromise either her relation or theprotégéin whose behalf she had already ventured so largely. She was still ignorant that her father and Charney no longer resided in each other’s neighbourhood; and when the news of their separation was brought back by the messenger employed to convey the books to Fenestrella, it became her first object to accomplish the reunion of the two captives.
After addressing letter after letter on the subject to the governor of Piedmont, she continued to interest in her behalf some of the chief inhabitants of Turin, and, through them, the wife of Menon, till the general, having strong motives for desiring to conciliate his influential petitioners, ended by granting the prayer of Teresa Girardi. And when, under the auspices of Madame Menon, she came to offer her grateful thanks to thegeneral, the veteran, touched by the devotedness of her filial tenderness, laying aside for a moment the harshness of his nature, took the young girl kindly by the arm, as he addressed her.
“You must come and visit my wife from time to time,” said he. “In about a month’s time she may have good news to tell you.”
And Teresa, nothing doubting that the good news would consist in an order for her readmission into the fortress of Fenestrella, to pass a portion of every day with her father, threw herself at the feet of the general with a countenance bright with joy, loading him with grateful acknowledgments.
While all this was proceeding undreamed of by the two captives, Charney and Girardi sat enjoying on their bench a glorious October sunshine, restoring, or rather forestalling around them, the warmth and promise of spring. Both were pensive and silent, leaning severally on the opposite arms which closed in the rustic seat. They might have passed for being estranged or indifferent to each other, but for the wistful looks cast from time to time by Charney upon his companion, who was absorbed in a profound reverie. It was not often that the countenance of Girardi was overshadowed by sadness—no wonder, therefore, that the Count should mistake the motives of his depression.
“Yes!” cried he, replying, as he fancied, to the looks of his friend; “captivity is, indeed, a purgatory! To be imprisoned for an imaginary offence—to live apart from all we love.”
But ere he could proceed, Girardi, raising his head, gazed with surprise upon the Count. “True, my dear friend!” hereplied; “separation is one of the severest trials of human fortitude!”
“Iyour friend!” interrupted Charney, with bitterness. “Have you the charity to bestow such a name uponme—upon me, who am the cause of your being parted from her? for it is of your daughter you are thinking! Deny it not! Teresa is the object of these mournful meditations; and, at such a moment, how odious must I be in your sight!”
“Believe me, you are mistaken in your conjectures,” mildly interrupted the venerable man. “Never was the image of my daughter invested with such consolatory associations as to-day. For Teresa has written to me. I have received a letter from my child.”
“Written to you—you have a letter from her—they have suffered it to reach your hands!” cried Charney, insensibly drawing nearer to his companion. Then checking his exultation, he added, “But you have, doubtless, learned some afflicting tidings?”
“Far from it, I assure you.”
“Wherefore, then, this depression?”
“Alas! my dear friend, such is the frailty of human nature; such is the mingled yarn of human destiny! A regret is sure to embitter our sweetest hopes. The happiness of this life casts its shadow before, and it is by the shadow that our attention is first attracted. You spoke of separation from those we love. Here is my letter! read it, and learn what considerations depress my spirits while seated by your side.”
Charney took the letter, and for some moments held it unopened in his hand; his eyes fixed on the countenance of Girardi, he seemed desirous of readingtherethe intelligence it contained. On examining the address he recognised with emotion the handwriting of his precious billet; and at length unfolding the paper, attempted to read aloud the contents. But his voice faltered—the words expired upon his lips; and stopping short, he concluded the letter almost inaudibly to himself.
“Dearest father,” wrote Teresa, “bestow a thousandkisses upon the paper you hold in your hands; for a thousand and a thousand have I impressed upon it, as harvest for your venerated lips!”
“What joy for us both, this renewal of correspondence! It is to General Menon we are indebted for the concession; he it is who has put an end to a silence which, even more than distance, seemed to keep us asunder. Blessings be upon him!Now, dear father, our thoughts, at least, may fly towards each other.Ishall communicate my hopes to sustain your courage;you, your griefs, in weeping over which I shall fancy I am weeping in your presence! But if a greater happiness, dearest father, were in reserve for us! For a moment, I beseech you, lay aside my letter, and summon your strength to hear the sudden joy I am about to excite in your bosom. Father! if I were once more permitted to be with you! to approach you—to listen to your instruction—to surround you with my attentions! Throughout the two years in which we enjoyed this alleviation of our affliction, captivity seemed to sit lightly on your spirits; and I entertain the hope—yes, the earnest, earnest hope, that the favour will be again vouchsafed me—that I shall be once more permitted to enter your prison!”
“Teresa about to visit you! here in the fortress!” cried Charney, wild with joy.
“Read on!” replied the old man, in a melancholy tone—“read on!”
“I shall be once more permitted to enter your prison,” resumed Charney, repeating the last sentence. “Are you not happy in such a prospect? Are you not overjoyed?” continued Teresa. “Pause a moment, to consider the good tidings I have thus announced! Do not hurry on towards the conclusion of my letter. Violent emotions are sometimes dangerous. Have I not already said enough? Were an angel to descend from heaven, charged with the accomplishment of our wishes, you would not presume to require more; but I, your child, might venture, ere he reascended to his native skies,Imight be tempted to implore your liberation fromcaptivity. Atyourage, father, it is a cruel thing to be denied the sight of your native country. The banks of our beloved Doria are so beautiful; and in our gardens on the Collina, the trees planted by my poor mother and brother have acquired surprising growth during your absence. There, more than on any other spot, survives the precious memory of those we have lost.
“Then, father, there are your friends—the friends who have supported, by their generous efforts, my applications to government. I am sure you regret your absence from them; I am sure you would delight in seeing them again. Oh! father, father! the pen seems to burn in my hand! My secret is about to escape me! It has, probably, already escaped me! You have, doubtless, summoned all your courage to learn definitively that, in a few days, I am about to rejoin you,notto lend my aid in softening your captivity, but to announce its termination;notto be with you at stated hours, and within the walls of a prison; but to carry you away with me in triumph from Fenestrella—free, proud—ay, proud—for you have now a right to resume your pride. Your faithful friends, Cotenna and Delarue, did not rest till they obtained,notyour pardon, but your justification. Yes, your innocence is fully recognised by the imperial government.
“Farewell, dearest and best of fathers. How I love you! how happy do I feel at this moment! and how much happier shall I be when again folded in your arms! Your own
“Teresa.”
The letter did not contain a single word in reference to Charney. That word—that hoped-for word—how eagerly did he seek for it in every page and line—how eagerly, and how vainly! Yet, notwithstanding his disappointment, it was a cry of joy that burst from the lips of the Count, when he concluded the letter.
“You will soon be free!” cried he; “soon able to rest under the shadow of green trees, and behold the rising of the sun!”
“Yes!” replied the old man. “But I am also about toleave you! Such is the shadow which precedes my happiness to-day, to prevent my joy from falling into excess.”
“Think not ofme, I beseech you!” cried Charney; proving, by his generous transports, and forgetfulness of self, how truly he deserved the friendship of which he was the object. “At last, you will be restored to her arms! At last, she will cease to suffer from the consequence of my rashness!Youwill be happy, and I no longer oppressed by the heaviness of remorse. During the last few hours that remain for us to be together, we may at least talk of her unreservedly.”
And, as he uttered these last incoherent words, the Count de Charney threw himself into the arms of his venerable friend.