CHAPTER X.
Induced at length to renew his experimental inquiries into the process of inflorescence, Charney became enchanted by the prodigious and immutable congruities of Nature. For some time, indeed, his eyes were baffled by the infinite minuteness of the phenomena to which his attention was directed; when, just as his patience became exhausted by his own incapacity, Ludovico conveyed to him, from his neighbour the fly-catcher, a microscopic lens, with which Girardi had been enabled to number eight thousand oculary facets on the cornea of a fly’s eye.
Charney was transported with joy at the acquisition! The most occult portion of the flower now became manifested for his investigation; and already he fancied himself advancing with gigantic strides in the path of science. Having carefully analyzed the texture of his flower, he convinced himself that the brilliant colours of the petal, their form, their crimson spots, the bands of velvet or satin which adorn their bases or fringe their extremities, are not intended for the mere gratification of the eye, but for the purpose of reflecting,attracting, or modifying the rays of the sun, according to the necessities of the flower during the grand process of fructification. The polished crowns or studs of the calyx, lustrous like porcelain, are doubtless glandular masses for the absorption of the air, light, and moisture, indispensable to the formation of the seed: for without light, no colour—without air and moisture, no vitality. Moisture, light, and heat, are the elements of vegetable life, which, on its extinction, it bequeaths in restitution to the universe.
Unknown to Charney, his reveries and studies had attracted two deeply interested spectators: Girardi and his daughter. The latter, educated in habits of piety and seclusion, by a father imbued with reverential religious sentiments, was blessed with one of those ethereal natures in which every good and holy interest seems united. The beauty and excellence of Teresa Girardi, the graces of her person and mind, had not failed to attract admirers; and her deep and expansive sensibility seemed to announce a predisposition for human affections. But if a vague preference had occasionally influenced her feelings amid thefêtesof Turin, every impulse of her gentle heart was now concentrated into grief for the captivity of her father.
Her soul was humbled, her spirits subdued. Two only objects predominated in her heart: her father in prison—her Saviour on the cross; despair on earth, but trust in immortality. Not that the fair daughter of Italy was of a melancholy mind. Her duties were easy to her, her sacrifices a delight; and where tears were to be dried or smiles awaked, there was the place of Teresa: hitherto, she had accomplished this task towards her father only; but from the moment of beholding Charney, his air of depression excited a two-fold compassion in her bosom. A captive like her father, and with her father, a mysterious analogy seemed to unite their destinies. But the Count is even more deserving pity than her father. The Count had no earthly solace remaining but a poor plant; and with what tenderness does he cultivate this last remaining affection! The noble countenanceand fine person of the prisoner might, perhaps, unsuspected by Teresa, tend to enhance her compassion; but had she become acquainted with him in his days of splendour, when surrounded by the deceptious attributes of happiness, these would never have sufficed to distinguish him in her eyes. His isolation—his abandonment—his calamity—his resignation, have alone attracted her interest, and prompted the gift of her tenderness and esteem. In her ignorance of men and things, Teresa is induced to include misfortune in her catalogue of virtues.
As bold in pursuance of a good action, as timid in personal deportment, she often directed towards Charney the good offices of her father; and one day when Girardi advanced to the window, instead of contenting himself, as usual, with a salutation of the hand, he motioned to the Count to draw as near as possible to the window; and, having moderated his voice to the lowest pitch, whispered—
“I have good news for you.”
“And I my thanks to return,” replied Charney, “for the microscope you have been kind enough to send me.”
“It is rather to my daughter your thanks are due,” replied Girardi. “It was Teresa who suggested the offer.”
“You have a daughter; and are you allowed the happiness of seeing her?” demanded the Count, with interest.
“I am indeed so fortunate,” replied the old man; “and return daily thanks to Heaven for having bestowed on me an angel in my child. During your illness, sir, none were more deeply interested in your welfare than my Teresa. Have you never noticed her at the grating, watching the care you devote to your flower?”
“I have some idea that——”
“But, in talking of my girl,” interrupted the old man. “I neglect to acquaint you with important news. The Emperor is on his way to Milan, for his coronation as King of Italy.”
“King of Italy!” reiterated Charney. “Doubtless, then, alas! to be our master. As to the microscope,” continued the Count, who cared less for king or kaiser than for hisruling passion, “I have detained it too long: you may be in want of it. Yet, as my experiments are still incomplete, perhaps you will permit——”
“Keep it,” interrupted the fly-catcher with a beneficent smile, perceiving, by the intonation of Charney’s voice, with what regret he was about to resign the solace of his solitude, “keep it in remembrance of a companion in misfortune, who entertains a lively interest in your welfare.”
Charney would have expressed his gratitude; but his generous friend refused all thanks. “Let me finish what I have to communicate, ere we are interrupted,” said he. Then, lowering his voice again, he added, “It is rumoured that a certain number of prisoners will be released, and criminals pardoned, in honour of the coronation. Have you friends, sir, in Turin or Milan? Are there any to intercede for you?”
The Count replied by a mournful negative movement of the head. “I have not a friend in the world!” was his reply.
“Not a friend!” exclaimed the old man, with a look of profound pity. “Have you, then, exhibited mistrust of your fellow-creatures?—for friendship is unpropitious only to those who withhold their faith. I, Heaven be thanked, have friends in abundance, good and faithful friends, who might, perhaps, be more successful in your behalf than they have been in mine.”
“I have nothing to ask of General Bonaparte,” said Charney, in a harsh tone, characteristic of all his former animosities.
“Hush! speak lower! I hear footsteps,” said Girardi.
There was an interval of silence; after which the Italian resumed, in a tone which softened, by almost paternal tenderness, the rebuke which it conveyed.
“Your feelings are still imbittered, my dear companion in adversity. Surely your study of the works of Nature ought to have subdued a hatred which is opposed to all the commandments of God, and all the chances of human happiness! Has not the fragrance of your flower poured balm into your wounds? The Bonaparte, of whom you speak so vindictively, surely I have more cause to hate him than yourself! My only son perished under his banner of usurpation.”
“True! And did you not seek to avenge his death?”
“The false rumour, then, has reached you,” said the old man, raising his head with dignity towards heaven, as if in appeal to the testimony of the Almighty. “Irevenge myself by a deed of blood! No, sir! no! My utmost crime consisted in the despair which prompted me, when all Turin saluted the victor with acclamations, to oppose to them the cries of my parental anguish. I was arrested on the spot; a knife was found on my person, and I was branded with the name of assassin;I, an agonized father, who had just learned the loss of an only son.”
“Infamous injustice! infamous tyranny!” cried the Count, with indignation.
“Nay,” remonstrated Girardi, “I thank Heaven I am able to perceive that Bonaparte may have been deceived by appearances. His character is neither wicked nor cruel; or what was there to prevent him from putting us both to death? By restoring me to liberty, he would only atone an error; nevertheless, I should bless him as a benefactor. I find captivity, however, by no means insupportable. Full of trust in the mercy of Providence, I resign myself to the event; but the sight of my imprisonment afflicts my daughter; and forhersake I desire my liberation. I would fain shorten her exile from the world, her alienation from the pleasures of her age. Say!—haveyouno human being who sorrows overyourmisfortunes?—nowomanwho weeps for you in secret, to whom you would sacrifice even yourpride, as an oppressed and injured man? Come, come, my dear brother in adversity! authorize my friends to include your name in their petitions!”
Charney answered with a smile—“No woman weeps for me! no one sighs for my return: for I have no longer gold to purchase their affection. What is there to allure me anew into the world, where I was even less happy than at Fenestrella? But even were troops of friends awaiting me—had I still wealth, honour, and happiness in store—I would refuse the gift of freedom from that hand, whose power and usurpations I devoted myself to overthrow.”
“You deny yourself even the enjoyment of hope?” said Girardi.
“Never will I bestow the title of emperor on one who is either my equal or my inferior.”
“Beware of sacrificing yourself to a sentiment, the offspring of vanity rather than of patriotism!” cried Girardi.
“But peace! silence!” said he, more cautiously. “Some one approaches in earnest.Addio, away!” And the venerable Italian disappeared from the grated window.
“Thanks!—a thousand thanks for the microscope!” was Charney’s last exclamation, as Girardi vanished from his view. And at that moment the door of the courtyard creaked on its hinges, and Ludovico made his appearance with the basket of provisions, forming the daily allowance of his prisoner. Observing the Count to be silent and absent-minded, the jailer accosted him only by rattling the plates as a signal that his dinner was ready. Then, having ascended to place all in order in the little chamber, amused himself, as he recrossed the court, with making a silent obeisance to theSignorandSignora, as he was now in the habit of qualifying the Count de Charney and his plant.
“The microscope is mine!” mused Charney, when he found himself alone. “But how have I merited such kind consideration on the part of a stranger? Ludovico, too, has become my friend. Under the rough exterior of the jailer, beats a kind and noble heart. There exist, then, after all, virtuous and warm-hearted men. But where!In a prison!”
“Be thankful to adversity,” remonstrated conscience, “which has made you capable of appreciating a benefit received.To what amounts the generosity of these two men? One of them watered your plant for you in secret; the other has conferred on you the means of analyzing its organization.”
“In the smallest services consists the truest generosity,” argued Charney in reply.
“True,” resumed the voice, “when such services are dedicated to your own convenience. Had Picciola never sprung to life, these two beings would have remained in your eyes—the one a doting old man, engrossed by puerile pursuits; the other, a gross and sordid clod, absorbed by the love of gain. In your world of other days, Sir Count, to what, pray, didyouattach yourself? To nothing. Your soul recoiled upon itself, and no man cared for you. By love comes love. It is your attachment to Picciola which has obtained you the affection of your companions. Picciola is the talisman by which you have attracted their regard.”
Charney interrupted this mono-dialogue by a glance from the microscope towards Picciola. He has already forgotten the announcement of “Napoleon, Emperor of the French, and King of Italy!”—one half of which formerly sufficed to convert him into a conspirator and a captive. How unimportant in his eyes, now, those honours conferred by nations, and based upon the liberties of Europe! An insect hovering over his plant, threatening mischief to its delicate vegetation, seems more alarming than the impending destruction of the balance of power, by the conquests of a new Alexander.