CHAPTER XIV.
On the morrow, the anxiously expected missive was delivered to him. In the dry and laconic style of office, the commandant announced that no change could be made in the distribution of the walls, moats, or ditches of the fortress of Fenestrella, unless by the express sanction of the Governor of Turin; “and the pavement of the court,” added the commandant, “is virtually a wall of the prison.”
Charney stood confounded by the stupidity of such an argument! To make the preservation of a flower a state question—a demolition of the imperial fortification—to wait a reply from the Governor of Turin! wait a century, when a day’s delay was likely to prove fatal! The Governor might perhaps refer him to the prime minister, the minister to the senate, the senate to the emperor himself. What profound contempt for the littleness of mankind arose in his bosom at the idea! Even Ludovico appeared little better in hiseyes than the assistant of the executioner: for on the first outburst of his indignation, the jailer remonstrated in the tone of an underling of the administration, replying to all his entreaties by citing the rules and regulations of the fortress.
Charney drew near to the feeble invalid whose bloom was already withering; with what grief did he now contemplate her fading hues! The happiness—the poetry of his life seemed vanishing before him. The fragrance of Picciola already indicated a mistaken hour, like a watch whose movements are out of order. Every blossom drooping on its stem had renounced the power of turning towards the sun; as a dying girl closes her eyes that she may not behold the lover, the sight of whom might attach her anew to a world from which she is departing.
While Charney was giving way to these painful reflections, the voice of his venerable companion in captivity appealed to his attention.
“My dear comrade,” whispered the mild and paternal accents of the old man, “if she should die—and I fear her hours are numbered—what will become of you here alone? What occupation will you find to fill the place of those pursuits that have become so dear to you? You will expire, in your turn, of lassitude and ennui; solitude once invaded, becomes insupportable in the renewal! You will sink under its weight, as I should, were I now parted from my daughter—from the guardian angel whose smile is the sunshine of my prison. With respect to your plant, the Alpine breezes doubtless wafted hither the seed, or a bird of the air dropped it from his beak; and even were the same circumstance to furnish you with a second Picciola, your joy in the present would be gone, prepared as you would be to see it perish like the first.My dear neighbour, be persuaded! suffer me to have your liberty interceded for by my friends. Your release will perhaps be more easily obtained than you are aware of. A thousand traits of clemency and generosity of the new emperor are everywhere rumoured. He is now at Turin, accompanied by Josephine.”
And this last name was pronounced by the old man as if it contained the promise of success.
“At Turin!” exclaimed Charney, eagerly raising his drooping head.
“For the last two days,” replied Girardi, delighted to see his advice less vehemently rejected than usual by the Count.
“And how far is it from Turin to Fenestrella?” continued Charney.
“By the Giaveno and Avigliano road, not more than seven leagues.”
“What space of time is necessary for the journey?”
“Four or five hours, at the least: for at this moment the roads are obstructed by troops, baggage-waggons, and the equipages of those who are hastening to the approaching festival. The road that winds through the valleys by the riverside is certainly the longest, but in the end would probably cause less delay.”
“And do you think it possible,” resumed Charney, “to procure a messenger for me who would reach Turin this very night?”
“My daughter would try to find a trustworthy person.”
“And you say that General Bonaparte—that the First Consul——”
“I saidthe Emperor,” gravely interrupted Girardi.
“The Emperor, then—you say that the Emperor is at Turin?” resumed Charney, as if gathering courage for some strong measure. “I will address a memorial, then, to the Emperor.” And the Count dwelt upon the latter word, as if to accustom himself to the new road he had determined to follow.
“Heaven’s mercy be praised!” ejaculated the old man: “for Heaven itself has inspired this victory over the instigations of sinful human pride! Yes—write! let your petition for pardon be worded in proper form; and my friends Fossombroni, Cotenna, and Delarue, will support it with all their interest, with Marescalchi, the minister, with Cardinal Caprara, and even with Melzi, who has just been appointed chancellor of the new kingdom. Who knows? We may perhaps quit Fenestrella on the same day! you to recommence a life of usefulness and activity—I, to follow the gentle guidance of my daughter.”
“Nay, sir—nay,” cried the Count. “Forgive me if I decline the protection to which your good-will would generously recommend me. It is to the Emperor in person that my memorial must be remitted—to-night, or early in the morning. Do you answer to me for a messenger?”
“I do,” said the old man, firmly, after a momentary pause.
“One question more,” added Charney. “Is there no chance of your being compromised by the service you are so kind as to render me?”
“The pleasure of being of use to you leaves me no leisure for apprehension,” answered Girardi. “Let me but lend my aid to the alleviation of your afflictions, and I am content. Should evil arise, I know how to submit to the decrees of Providence.”
Charney was deeply touched by these simple expressions. Tears glistened in his eyes as he raised them towards the good old man.
“What would I give to press your hand!” cried he; and he stretched out his arm with the utmost effort, in hopes to reach the grated window, while Girardi extendedhisbetween the bars. But it was all in vain. A movement of mutual sympathy was the utmost that could pass between them.
When Charney took leave of Picciola, on his way to his chamber, he could not refrain from whispering, “Courage! I shall save thee yet!” And, having reached his miserablecamera, he selected the whitest of his remaining handkerchiefs, mended his tooth-pick with the greatest care, made up a fresh supply of ink, and set to work. When his memorial was completed, which was not without a thousand pangs of wounded pride, a little cord descended from the grating of Girardi’s window, to which the paper was attached by the Count, and carefully drawn up.
An hour afterwards, the person who had undertaken to present the petition to the Emperor was proceeding accompanied by a guide, through the valleys of Suza, Bussolino, and St. George, along the bank of the river Doria. Both were on horseback; but the greater their haste, the more perplexing the obstacles by which their way was impeded. Recent rains had broken away the bank; the river was, in many spots, overflowing; and more than one raging torrent appeared to unite the Doria with the lake Avigliano. Already the forges of Giaveno were reddening in the horizon, announcing that the day was about to close, when, joyfullyregaining the high road, they entered, though not without having surmounted many difficulties, the magnificent avenue of Rivoli, and late in the evening, arrived at Turin. The first tidings by which they were saluted was an announcement that the emperor-king had already proceeded to Alexandria.