Thus passed the days of the prisoner; and after whole hours devoted to
inquiry and analysis, Charney loved to turn from the weariness of his
studies to the brightness of his illusions—from Picciola the blooming
plant, to Picciola the blooming girl. Whenever the awakening perfumes of
his flower ascended to his chamber, oppressing his senses, and creating
misty confusion before his eyes, he used to exclaim, “To-night Picciola
will hold her court; I must hasten to Picciola.”
Thus predisposed to reverie, his mind was promptly attuned into the sort
of doze in which, during the absence of reason, “mimic fancy wakes.” Oh!
were it not, indeed, a dearer enjoyment than any yet vouchsafed to human
nature, if man could so far acquire authority over his dreams, as to live
at will that secondary life where events succeed each other with such
rapidity; where centuries cost us but one breathing hour; where a magic
halo environs all the actors of the drama, and where nothing is read but
the emotions of our thrilling hearts? Would you have music? Harmonious
concerts might arise in spontaneous unison, unprefaced by discordant
tuning, the anxious looks of the musicians, or the ungraceful and quaint
forms of their instruments. Such is the world of dreams! Pleasure without
repentance; the rainbow without the storm!
To such illusions did Charney resign himself. Faithful to the gentle
image of his Picciola, it was to _her_ he invariably appealed; and
the vision came at his call, simple, modest, and beautiful, as at
its first advent. Sometimes he surrounded her with the companions of
his early studies; sometimes, united with his mother and sister, his
imaginary love served to create around him the domestic happiness of his
youth. Sometimes she seemed to introduce him into a dwelling cheered
by competence, and adorned with elegance, where pleasures, hitherto
unknown, came wooing his enjoyment. After evoking the joys of memory and
calling up reminiscences of the past, she gave existence to hope, to ties
undreamed of, and joys unknown. Mysterious influence! Where was he to
find the solution of the mystery? With the view of future comparison, the
Count actually began to record on his cambric pages the wild illusions of
his dreams!
One evening, in the midst of a flight of fancy, Picciola for the first
time dispelled the charm of happiness and serenity, by the exercise of
a sinister influence! At a later moment he recurred to the event as the
effect of a fatal presentiment!
It was just as the fragrance of the plant indicated the sixth hour
of evening, and Charney was musing at his accustomed post. Never had
that aromatic vapour exercised its powers more potently: for more than
thirty full-blown flowers were emitting the magnetic atmosphere, so
influential over the senses of the Count. He fancied himself surrounded
once more by the crowds of society; having drawn aside from which,
towards an esplanade of verdure, his beloved Picciola deigned to follow
his footsteps. The graceful phantom advanced smiling towards him; and
Charney, in a musing attitude, stood admiring the supple grace of the
young girl, around whose well-turned form the drapery of her snow-white
dress played in harmonious folds, and her raven tresses, amid which
bloomed the never absent flower! On a sudden he saw her start, stagger,
and extend her arms towards him. He tried to rush towards her; but an
insurmountable obstacle seemed to separate him from her side. A cry of
horror instantly escaped his lips, and lo! the vision disappears! He
wakes, but it is to hear a second cry, respondent to his own; yes, the
cry, the voice of a female!
Nevertheless, the Count is still in his usual place—in the old court, and
reclining on the rustic bench beside his Picciola! But at the grating
of the little window appeared the momentary glimpse of a female form! A
soft and melancholy countenance, half hid in shade, seems gazing upon
him; but when, rising from his seat, he hastens towards it, the vision
vanishes, or rather the young girl hastens from the window. However swift
her disappearance, Charney was able to distinguish her features, her
hair, her form, the whiteness of her robe. He paused. Is he asleep, or
waking? Can it be that the insurmountable obstacle which divides him from
Picciola is no other than the grating of a prison?
At that moment Ludovico hastens towards him with an air of consternation.
“Are you again indisposed, _Signor Conte_?” cried the jailer. “Have you
had another attack of your old disorder? _Trondidio!_ If we are obliged,
for form’s sake, to send for the prison doctor, I’ll take care, _this_
time, that no one but Madame Picciola and myself have a hand in the cure!”
“I am perfectly well,” replied Charney, trying to recover his composure.
“What put it into your head that I was indisposed?”
“The fly-catcher’s daughter came in search of me. She saw you stagger,
and hearing you cry aloud, fancied you were in need of assistance.”
The Count relapsed into a fit of musing. It seemed to occur to him, for
the first time, that a young girl occasionally inhabited that part of the
prison.
“The resemblance I fancied I could discover between the stranger and
Picciola, is doubtless a new delusion!” said he to himself. And he now
recalled to mind Teresa’s interest in his favour, mentioned to him by the
venerable Girardi. The young Piedmontese had compassionated his condition
during his illness. To _her_ he is indebted for the possession of his
microscope. His heart becomes suddenly touched with gratitude, and in
the first effusion, a sudden remark seems to sever the double image,
the young girl of his dreams, from the young girl of his waking hours;
“Girardi’s daughter wore no flower in her hair.”
That moment, but not without hesitation, not without self-reproach, he
plucked with a trembling hand from his plant a small branch covered with
blossoms.
“Formerly,” thought Charney, “what sums of money did I lavish to adorn,
with gold and gems, brows devoted to perjury and shame! upon how many
abandoned women and heartless men did I throw away my fortune, without
caring more for them than for the feelings of my own bosom, which, at the
same moment, I placed in the dust under their feet! Oh, if a gift derives
its value from the regard in which it is held by the donor, never was a
richer token offered by man to woman, my Picciola, than these flowers
which I borrow from thy precious branches to bestow on the daughter of
Girardi!”
Then, placing the blossomed bough in the hands of the jailer, “Present
these in my name to the daughter of my venerable neighbour, good
Ludovico!” said he. “Thank her for the generous interest she vouchsafes
me; and tell her that the Count de Charney, poor, and a prisoner, has
nothing to offer her more worthy her acceptance.”
Ludovico received the token with an air of stupefaction. He had begun to
enter so completely into the passion of the captive for his plant, that
he could not conjecture by what services the daughter of the fly-catcher
had merited so distinguished a mark of munificence.
“No matter! _Capo di San Pasquali!_” exclaimed Ludovico, as he passed the
postern. “They have long admired my god-daughter at a distance. Let us
see what they will say to the brightness of her complexion, and sweetness
of her breath, on a nearer acquaintance, _Piccioletta mia, andiamo!_”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]