Elated by success, Ludovico lent his ear, in a sort of idiotic ecstasy,
to every syllable uttered by the Count. Not that he comprehended their
meaning:—_There_, luckily, he was safe. But his dead man was alive again;
had resumed his power of speaking, thinking, acting—a sufficient motive
of exultation and emotion to the delighted jailer.
“_Viva!_” cried he; “_viva, evviva_. He is saved. All’s well! _Che
maraviglia!_ Saved!—and thanks to whom?—_to what?_”
And, waving in the air his earthen vessel, he proceeded to hug and
embrace it, saluting it with the tenderest diminutives of the Tuscan
vocabulary.
“Thanks to what?” echoed the sick man. “Why, to your friendly care, my
good Ludovico. Nevertheless, should my cure be perfected, you will find
those doctors yonder claiming all honour for their prescriptions; and the
priest for his prayers.”
“Neither they nor I have any title to the victory,” cried Ludovico,
with still wilder gesticulation. “As to the _Signore Capellano_, _his_
handiwork may have done something: ’tis hard to say. But as to the
other—ay, ay—as to the other bringer of salvation—”
“To whom do you allude?” interrupted Charney, expecting that the
superstitious Ludovico would attribute his recovery to the interposition
of some favourite saint. “_Who_ has deigned to become my protector?”
“Say _protectress_, and you will be nearer the mark,” cried Ludovico.
“The Madonna—eh?” demanded Charney, with an ironical smile.
“Neither saint nor Madonna!” replied the jailer, stoutly. “She who has
preserved you from the jaws of death and the claws of Satan (for dying
without confession you were damned as well as dead), is no other than my
pretty little god-daughter.”
“Your god-daughter!” said the Count, lending a more attentive ear to his
rhapsodies.
“Ay, _Eccellenza_, my god-daughter, _Picciola_, _Picciolina_,
_Piccioletta_. Was not I the first to baptize your favourite? Did I not
give her the name of _Picciola_? Have you not often told me so yourself?
Ergo—the plant is my god-daughter, and I her godfather—_per Bacco!_ I’m
growing proud of the distinction!”
“_Picciola!_” exclaimed Charney, starting up, and resting his elbow on
his pillow, while an expression of the deepest interest took possession
of his countenance. “Explain yourself, my good Ludovico, explain
yourself!”
“Come, come, no shamming stupid, my dear lord!” said the jailer, resuming
the customary wink of the eye, “as if ’twas the first time that she had
saved your life!”
“The first time?”
“Didn’t you tell me yourself that the herb was the only specific against
the disorder to which you were subject? Lucky job I hadn’t forgotten
it; for the Signora Picciola proves to have more wisdom in one of her
leaves, than the whole faculty of Montpellier in the noddles that
fill its trencher-caps. _Trondidio_, my little god-daughter is able to
defeat a regiment of doctors! ay, in full complements—four battalions,
and four hundred picked men to each. Pray, did not your three humbugs
in black throw back the coverlid on your nose, and pronounce you to be
a dead man? while Picciola, the stout-hearted little weed (God send her
seed in her harvest!), brought you round in the saying of a paternoster?
’Tis a recipe I mean to keep like the apple of my eye; and if ever poor
little Antonio should fall sick, he shall drink broths of the herb, and
eat salads of it; though, good truth, ’tis as bitter as wormwood. A
single cup of the infusion, and all acted like a charm. _Vittoria! Viva
l’illustrissima Signorina Picciola!_”
Charney had not the heart to resent these tumultuous ecstasies of his
worthy keeper. The idea of being indebted for his life to the agency
of the feeble favourite, which had embellished his days of health,
insensibly brought a smile to his still feverish lips. But a vague
apprehension oppressed his feelings.
“In what way, my good Ludovico, did you manage to apply your remedy?”
said he, faintly.
“Faith! easily enough! A pint of scalding water poured upon the leaves”
(Charney bit his lips with anxiety), “in a close kettle, which, after a
turn or two over the stove, furnished the decoction.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Count, falling back on his pillow, and pressing
his hand to his forehead. “You have then destroyed the plant! I must
not reproach you, Ludovico; you did it for the best. And yet, my poor
_Picciola_! What will become of me, now I have lost my little companion!”
“Come, come! compose yourself!” answered Ludovico, assuming the paternal
tone of a father comforting his child for the loss of a favourite
plaything. “Compose yourself, and do not expose your limbs to cold, by
throwing off your clothes in this way. Listen to reason!” he continued,
disposing the covering round the person of his patient. “Was I to
hesitate between the life of a gilly-flower and the life of a _man_?
Certainly not! ’Twould have been a sin—a murder!”
Charney groaned heavily.
“However, I hadn’t the heart to plunge the poor thing head foremost into
the smoking kettle. I thought a loan might do as well as total pillage;
so, with my wife’s scissors, I snipped off leaves enough for a strong
infusion (sparing the buds; for the jade has now _three_ flower-buds
for her top-knot), and though her foliage is a little the thinner, I’ve
a notion the plant will not suffer from thinning. _Picciola_ will,
perhaps, be the better for the job, as well as her master. So now, be
prudent, _eccellenza_! only be prudent, and all will go by clock-work at
Fenestrella.”
Charney, directing a glance of grateful affection towards his jailer,
extended towards him a hand which, _this_ time, Ludovico felt himself
privileged to accept; for the eyes of the Count were moistened by
tears of emotion. But suddenly recollecting himself, and angry with
his own infraction of the rule he had traced for his conduct towards
those committed to his charge, the muscles of Ludovico’s dark face
contracted, and he resumed his harsh, surly, every-day tone. Though still
holding within his own the hand of his prisoner, he affected to give a
professional turn to his attitude.
“See!” cried he, “in spite of my injunctions, you still persist in
uncovering yourself. Remember, sir, I am responsible for your recovery!”
And, after further remonstrances, made in the dry tone of office,
Ludovico quitted the room, murmuring to the accompaniment of his rattling
keys, the burden of his favourite song:
“I’m a jailer by my trade;
A better ne’er was made.
Easy ’tis to laugh for those that win, man!
I’d rather turn the key
Than have it turned on me.
Better out of doors than always in, man!
With a lira-lira-la—driva din, man!”
[Illustration]