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 the _fêtes_ of
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
countenance and 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 his ruling 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. “_I_ revenge 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 for _her_ sake I desire my
liberation. I would fain shorten her exile from the world, her alienation
from the pleasures of her age. Say!—have _you_ no human being who sorrows
over _your_ misfortunes?—no _woman_ who weeps for you in secret, to whom
you would sacrifice even your _pride_, 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.
[Illustration]
“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 the _Signor_ and _Signora_, 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, did _you_
attach 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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]