CHAPTER XIII.
Many sacrifices of a similar kind, however, were now required of Charney. The epoch of fructification is arrived. The brilliant petals of many of the flowers have fallen, and their stamens become useless: decaying, like the cotyledons, after the first leaves had attained maturity. The ovary containing the germ of the seeds begins to enlarge within the calyx. The fertile flowers lay aside their beauty, like matrons who, in achieving their maternal triumphs, begin to disdain for themselves the vain adornments of coquetry.
The Count now devotes his attention to the most sublime of all the mysteries of nature, the perpetuation of created kinds, and the reproduction of life. In opening and analyzing a bud detached some time before from the tree, by the injury of an insect, Charney had noticed the primary germ destined to fertilization, but demanding protection and nutriment from the flower before its feeble organization could be perfected. Admirable foresight of nature, as yet unexplained by the logic of science. But now the reproduction of a future Picciola is to be completed; and the narrow seed must be made to comprehend all the development of a perfect plant. The curious observer is to direct his notice to the fecundation of the vegetable egg; and for this purpose, Picciola must be submitted to further mutilation. No matter! She is already preparing herself for the reparation of herlosses. On all sides buds are reappearing. From every joint of her stem, or branches, new shoots are putting forth to produce a second flowering.
In pursuance of this task, Charney soon took his usual seat with the grave demeanour of an experimentalist. But scarcely had he cast his eyes upon the plant when he is shocked by the air of languor apparent in his favourite. The flowers inclining on their peduncles seem to have lost their power of turning towards the sun; their leaves curling inwards their deep and lustrous verdure. For a moment Charney fancies that a heavy storm is at hand, and prepares his mats and osier bands to secure Picciola from the force of the wind or hail. But no! the sky is cloudless—the air serene—and the lark is heard singing out of sight, overhead, secure in the breathlessness of the blue expanse of heaven.
Charney’s brow becomes overcast. “She is in want of water,” is his first idea; but having eagerly fetched the pitcher from his chamber, and on his knees beside the plant, removed the lower branches, in order at once to reach the root, he is struck motionless with consternation. All—all—is explained. His Picciola is about to perish!
While the flowers and perfumes were multiplying to increase his studies and enjoyments, the stem of the plant, also, was increasing unobserved. Enclosed between two stones of the pavement, and strangled by their pressure, a deep indentation first gave token of her sufferings, the surface of which being at length crushed and wounded by the edges of the granite, the sap has begun to exude from the fissures, and the strength of the plant is exhausted!
Limited in the allotment of soil for her nutriment, her sap unnaturally expanded, her strength overtasked, Picciola mustdie, unless prompt relief can be afforded! Her doom is sealed! One only resource remains. By removing the stones that weigh upon her roots, the plant may yet be preserved. But how to effect this, without an implement to assist her efforts? Rushing towards the postern and knocking vehemently, the Count summons Ludovico to his aid. But although on the jailer’s arrival the explanation of the disaster and the sight of his expiring god-daughter overwhelm him with sorrow, no other answer can be obtained by Charney to his entreaties that the pavement may instantly be removed, than “Eccellenza, the thing is impossible!”
Without hesitation, the Count attempted to conciliate the jailer’s acquiescence by the offer no longer of the gilt goblet of his dressing-case, but the whole casket.
But Ludovico, assuming his most imposing attitude, folded his arms upon his breast, exclaiming, in his half-provincial, half-Piedmontese dialect, “Bagasse, bagasse!Ludovico is too old a soldier to submit to bribery. I know my orders. I know my duty. It is to the captain-commandant you must address yourself.”
“No,” cried Charney. “Rather would I tear up the stones with my hands, even were my bleeding nails sacrificed in the attempt!”
“Ay, ay! time will show!” replied Ludovico, resuming the pipe, which he was in the habit of holding half-extinguished under his thumb, during his colloquies with the Count; and after a puff or two, turning on his heel to depart.
“Good Ludovico! I have hitherto found you so kind—so charitable! Can you do nothing for my assistance?” persisted Charney.
“Trondidio!” answered the jailer, trying to conceal by an oath the emotion gaining upon his feelings, “can’t you leave me a moment’s peace—you and your accursed gilly-flower! As to thepoverina, I forgive her—’tis no fault of Picciola! but as to you, whose obstinacy will certainly be the death of the poor thing——”
“What would you have me do, then?” exclaimed the Count.
“Petition the commandant, I tell you, petition the commandant!” cried Ludovico.
“Never!”
“There you are again; but if your pride is so tetchy, will you givemeleave to speak to him?”
“No,” replied Charney; “I forbid you.”
“Youforbid me!” cried the jailer. “D——e!is ityourorders I am to obey? If I choose to speak to him, who is to prevent me?”
“Ludovico!”
“Set your mind at ease; I am not going to undertake any such fool’s errand. What business is it of mine? Let her live, let her die;che m’ importa?If you want to put an end to the plant, ’tis your own affair—Buona notte!”
“But has your commandant sense enough to understand me?” demanded the Count, detaining him.
“Why not? do you take him for a kinserlick? Tell him your story straight on end: pack it into pretty little sentences, like a scholar who knows what he is about; for now’s the time to put your learning to some use. Why shouldn’theenter into your love for a flower as well as I have? Besides, I shall be there to put in a word. I can tell him what a capital tisane is to be made of the herb. The commandant’s an ailing man himself. He has got a sharp fit of the rheumatism upon him at this very moment, which will perhaps make him enter into the case.”
Charney still hesitated; but Ludovico pointed with one of his knowing winks to Picciola, sick and suffering; and, with a gesture of anxiety from the Count, off went the jailer on his errand.
Some minutes afterwards, a man in a half-military, half-civil uniform, made his appearance in the court, with an inkstand and a sheet of paper bearing a government stamp. As Ludovico had announced, this person remained present while Charney wrote out his petition; and received it sealed intohis hands, and, with a respectful bow, departed, carrying off the inkstand.
Reader, despise not the self-abasement of the haughty Count de Charney, marvel not at the readiness with which he has consented to an act of humiliation. Remember that Picciola is all in all to the poor prisoner. Reflect upon the influence of isolation on the firmest mind, the proudest spirit. Had he recourse to submission whenhimselfoppressed with suffering, pining after the free air of liberty, overpowered by the walls of his dungeon, as Picciola by its pavement? No! for his own woes the Count had fortitude; but between himself and his favourite, a league of mutual obligation subsists—sacred enjoyments have arisen. Picciola preservedhislife; must her own be sacrificed to his self-love?
The venerable Girardi presently beheld the Count pacing the little court with agitated footsteps, and gestures of anxiety and impatience. How tediously were the moments passing—how cruel the delay to which he was exposed! Three hours had elapsed since he despatched his petition; and no answer. As the sap of the expiring plant oozed from the wounded bark, Charney felt that he had rather his own blood were required of him. The old man, addressing him from the window, tried in vain to afford him consolation; but at length, more experienced than himself in accidents of the vegetable and animal kingdom, indicated a mode of closing up the wounds of the stems, so as to remove at least one source of peril.
With a mixture of finely chopped straw and moistenedclay, he forms a mastic, easily fixed upon the bark with bandages of torn cambric. An hour passed rapidly in the performance; but at its close, the Count has to bewail anew the silence of the governor.
At the usual dinner hour, Ludovico made his appearance with a vexed and careworn countenance, annunciatory of no good tidings. The jailer scarcely deigns a reply to the interrogations of Charney, except by monosyllables, or the roughest remonstrances.
“Can’t you wait? What use in so much hurry? Give him time to write!”
Ludovico seemed preparing himself for the part which he found he should be required to play in the sequel.
Charney touched not a morsel: the sentence of life or death was impending over Picciola; and he sat trying to inspire himself with courage, by protesting that none but the most cruel of men could refuse so trifling a concession as he had asked. But his impatience did but increase with his arguments, as if the commandant could have no business more important in hand than to address an immediate answer to his memorial. At the slightest noise, Charney’s eyes turned eagerly towards the door by which he was expecting the fiat of the governor.
Evening came—no news; night—not a word! The unfortunate prisoner did not close his eyes that night!