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 his eyes 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.

[Illustration]

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 said _the 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.

[Illustration]

“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 extended _his_ between 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 miserable _camera_, 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.

[Illustration]

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, joyfully regaining 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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

At dawn of day, next morning, the city of Alexandria was arrayed in

all its attributes of festivity. An immense population circulated in

the streets, festooned with tapestry, garlands of flowers, and glossy

foliage. The crowd pressed chiefly from the Town Hall, inhabited by

Napoleon and Josephine, towards the triumphal arch, erected at the

extremity of the suburb through which they were to pass on their way to

the memorable plains of Marengo.

The whole way, from Alexandria to the Marengo, the same populace, the

same cries, the same braying of trumpets. Never had the pilgrimage to

the shrine of our Lady of Loretto, never had even the Holy Jubilee of

Rome, attracted such multitudes as were proceeding towards the field of

that tremendous battle, whose ashes were scarcely yet cold in the earth.

On the plain of Marengo, the Emperor has promised to preside over a

sham-fight—a mimic representation, given in honour of the signal victory

obtained five years before upon the spot, by the Consul Bonaparte.

[Illustration]

Tables, raised on trestles, appear to line the road. The people, in

innumerable masses, are eating, drinking, singing, shouting, and acting

plays in the open air. Even preaching is not neglected; for more than one

pulpit has been improvisated between the theatres and wine-shops; from

which hosts of greasy monks, not satisfied with giving their benediction

to the passengers, and exhorting them to temperance and sobriety, gratify

their avarice by the sale of consecrated chaplets, and little virgins,

carved in ivory.

In the long and only street of the village of Marengo, every house,

transformed into an inn, presents a scene of noise and confusion. To

every window, the eyes of the spectators are attracted by strings of

smoked hams or sausages; of quails or red partridges, or pyramids of

gingerbread and cakes. People are pushing in, or pushing out at every

door; Italians and French, soldiers or peasants; heaps of maccaroni, of

marchpane, and other dainties, are beginning to disappear. In the dark

and narrow staircases, people rub quarrelsomely against each other;

some even compelled, by the rapacity of their neighbours, to raise over

their heads the food they are carrying; while a cleverer hand and longer

arm than their own, makes off, unperceived, with the savoury burden:

whether a buttered loaf, figs, grapes, oranges, a Turin ham, a larded

quail, a force-meat pie, or an excellent _stufato_, in its tureen; when

cries of indignation, or shrieks of distress, accompanied by mockeries

and loud laughter, resound on every side. The thief, in the ascending

line upon the staircase, satisfied with his plunder, tries to turn back

and run away. The victim, in the descending line, robbed of his dinner,

attempts to return, and furnish himself with new provisions; and the

flux and reflux of the crowd, disorganized by these irregular movements,

is pushed partly into the street, and partly into the warehouse on the

second story, amid oaths, imprecations, and peals of laughter; while

their discomfiture is hailed, with added uproar, by the drinkers already

established in the wine-shops of the ground floor, in defiance of the

sage counsels of the monks.

From one room to another, among tables covered with dishes and surrounded

with guests, are seen circulating the hostess and _giannine_, or

waitresses of the house; some with gay-coloured aprons, powdered hair,

and the coquettish little poniard, which forms part of their holiday

costume; others with short petticoats, long braids of hair, naked feet,

and a thousand glittering ornaments of tinsel or gold.

But to these animated scenes in the village or the road—the chamber or

the street—to these cries, songs, exclamations, the noise of music,

dancing, talking, and the jingling of plates and glasses, other sounds of

a different nature are about to succeed.

In an hour the thundering noise of cannon will be heard; cannon almost

harmless, indeed, and likely only to break the windows of the houses.

The little street will echo with the word of command, and every house be

eclipsed by the smoke of volleys of musketry, charged with powder. Then,

beware of pillage, unless every remnant of provision has been placed in

safety; nay, let the gay _giannina_ look to herself: for a mimic war is

apt, in such particulars, to imitate its prototype. In great particulars,

however, no less: for nothing can exceed the majesty of the preparations

for the sham-fight upon the plain of Marengo.

A magnificent throne, planted round with tri-coloured standards, is

raised upon one of the few hillocks which diversify the field. Already

the troops, in every variety of uniform, are defiling towards the spot.

The trumpet appeals to the cavalry; the rolling of drums seems to cover

the whole surface of the plain, which trembles under the heavy progress

of the artillery and ammunition-waggons. The aide-de-camps, in their

glittering uniforms, are galloping hither and thither; the banners waving

to the wind, which causes, at the same time, a pleasing undulation of

the feathers, aigrettes, and tri-coloured plumes; while the sun, that

ever-present guest at the fêtes of Napoleon, that radiant illustrator of

the pomps and vanities of the empire, casts its vivid reflections upon

the golden embroideries, the brass and bronze of the cannon, helmets,

cuirasses, and the sixty thousand bayonets bristling the tumultuous field.

By degrees, the troops, arriving with hurried march at the appointed

spot, continue to force backward, in a wild semi-circle of retreat, the

crowds of curious spectators, broken up like the rippling billows of

the ocean, by the progress of one enormous wave; while a few horsemen

charging along the line, proceed to clear the field for action.

The village is now deserted; the gay tents are struck, the trestles

removed, the songs and clamours reduced to silence. On all sides are to

be seen, scattered along the vast circuit of the plane, men interrupted

in their sport or repast, and women dragging away their children,

terrified by the flashing sabres, or loud neighing of the chargers.

It is no difficult matter to discern, by attentively examining the

countenances of the men still collected under the same colours, to

_which_ among them the orders of the general-in-chief, Marshal Lannes,

has assigned, in the coming fray, the glory of victory—to _which_ the

duty of being vanquished; while the gallant marshal himself, followed by

a numerous _état major_, is seen tracing and reconnoitring the ground,

on which it has been already his lot to figure with such distinction.

He now distributed to each brigade its part in the coming battle; taking

care, however, to omit in the representation the blunders of that great

and terrible day, the 14th of June, 1800: for, after all, it is but a

delicate flattery in military tactics, a madrigal, composed with salvos

of artillery, which is about to be recited in honour of the new sovereign

of Italy.

[Illustration: _Napoleon reviewing the troops._]

The troops now proceed to form into line, deploy, and form again, at the

word of command; when military symphonies are heard from the side of

Alexandria; vague murmurs increase from the mass of human population,

which, protected by the streams of the Tanaro, the Bormida, the Orba,

and the ravines of Tortona, form the moving girdle of the vast arena.

Suddenly, the drums beat to arms; cries and huzzas burst from amid

circling clouds of dust; sabres glitter in the sunshine; muskets are

shouldered, as if by a mechanical movement; while a brilliant equipage,

drawn by eight noble horses, caparisoned and emblazoned with the arms of

Italy and France, conveys to the foot of their throne, the Emperor and

Empress—Napoleon and Josephine.

The Emperor, after receiving homage from all the deputations of Italy,

the envoys of Lucca, Genoa, Florence, Rome, and even Prussia, mounts

impatiently on horseback; and, instantaneously, the whole plain is

overspread with fire and smoke.

Such were the sports of the youthful hero! War for his pastime, war for

the accomplishment of his puissant destinies! Nothing less than war could

satisfy that ardent temperament, formed for conquest and supremacy, to

which the subjugation of the whole world would alone have left an hour of

leisure!

An officer, appointed by the Emperor, stood explaining to Josephine, as

she sat solitary on her throne, half terrified by the spectacle before

her, the meaning of the various manœuvres, and the object of every

evolution. He showed her the Austrian general, Melas, expelling the

French from the village of Marengo, overpowering them at Pietra-Buona,

at Castel-Ceriola; and Bonaparte suddenly arresting him in the midst of

his victorious career, with only nine hundred men of the consular guard.

Her attention was next directed to one of the most important movements of

the battle.

The republicans appear to be giving way, when Desaix suddenly appears

on the Tortona road; and the terrible Hungarian column, under Zach,

marches to meet him. But, while the officer was yet speaking, Josephine’s

attention is diverted from the military movements by a sort of confusion

around her; on demanding the cause of which, she is informed that “a

young girl, having imprudently cleared the line of military operations,

at the risk of being crushed by the artillery, or trampled by charges

of cavalry, is creating farther confusion by her obstinacy in pressing

towards the presence of her majesty, the Empress-Queen.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

Teresa—for the intruder was no other than the daughter of Girardi—had

been for a moment overcome by the intelligence she received at Turin

of the departure of the Emperor for Alexandria. But it was fatigue

rather than discouragement which made her pause; and nothing but the

recollection that an unhappy captive was dependent upon her for the

accomplishment of his only wish on earth, would have urged her forward

upon her perilous errand. Without regard, therefore, to her weariness or

loss of time, she signified to the guide her intention of proceeding at

once to Alexandria.

“_To Alexandria!_ ’Tis twice as far as we have come already!” cried the

man.

“No matter, we must set out again immediately.”

“I, for my part, shall not set out again before to-morrow,” replied the

guide; “and then, only to return to Fenestrella; so a pleasant journey to

you, signora!”

All the arguments she could use were unavailing to change his

determination. The man, who had enveloped himself in the iron obstinacy

of the Piedmontese character, speedily unsaddled his horses, and laid

himself down between them in the stable for a good night’s rest.

But Teresa, firmly devoted to her enterprise, would not now recede from

the undertaking. Having made up her mind to pursue her journey, she

entreated the landlady of the inn in the _Dora Grossa_, where she had

put up, to procure her the means of proceeding to Alexandria without

a moment’s delay; and the hostess instantly despatched her waiters in

various directions through the city in search of a conveyance, but

without success. From the Suza gate to that of the Po, from the Porta

Nuova to that of the palace, not a horse, carriage nor cart, public or

private, was to be seen; all had long been engaged in consequence of the

approaching solemnization at Alexandria.

[Illustration]

Teresa now gave herself up to despair. Absorbed in anxious thought, she

stationed herself with downcast looks on the steps of the inn, where

luckily the gathering darkness secured her from recognition by the

inhabitants of her native city, when suddenly the sound of approaching

wheels became audible, accompanied by the tinkling of mule-bells; and at

the very door where she was standing there appeared two powerful mules

drawing one of those long caravans in use among travelling merchants,

of which the boxes, closed by heavy padlocks, are made to open and form

a movable shop, but the only accommodation of which, for passengers,

consists in a narrow leathern seat in front, half under cover of a small

awning of oil-cloth.

The man and woman, owners of the cart and its merchandise, having

alighted, began to stretch their arms and yawn aloud, stamping with their

feet by way of rousing themselves after a long and heavy slumber. At

length, having familiarly saluted the hostess, they took refuge in the

chimney-corner, holding out their hands and feet towards the vine-stocks

blazing on the hearth; and after ordering the mules to be unharnessed

and carefully attended to, they began to congratulate each other on the

conclusion of their tedious journey, ordered supper, and talked of bed.

The hostess, too, was preparing for rest. The yawning waiters closed up

the doors and window-shutters; and poor Teresa, watching with tearful

eyes all these preparations, thought only of the hours that were passing

away, the dying flower, and the despair of the Count de Charney.

“A night, a whole night!” she exclaimed; “a night of which every minute

will be counted by that unhappy man; while _I_ shall be safe asleep.

Nay, even to-morrow, it will be perhaps impossible for me to find a

conveyance!”

And she cast her wistful eyes upon the two travellers, as if her last

hope lay in their assistance. But she was still ignorant of the road

they were to take, or whether they could or would be troubled with her

company; and the poor girl, unaccustomed to find herself alone among

strangers, still less among strangers of such a class, impelled by

anxiety, but withheld by timidity, advanced a step towards them, then

paused, mute, trembling, and undecided; when she was startled by the

approach of a female servant, holding a candle and a key, who pointed out

to her the room into which she was to retire for the night. Forced by

this proposition to take some immediate step, Teresa put aside the arm

of the _giannina_, and advancing towards the couple, engaged in munching

their supper, entreated pardon for the interruption, and inquired what

road they were to take on quitting Turin.

“To Alexandria, my pretty maid,” replied the woman, starting at the

question.

“To Alexandria! ’Twas then my guardian angel who brought you hither!”

cried Teresa, overjoyed.

“I wish he had picked out a better road, then, signorina,” cried the

woman, “for we are all but ground to powder!”

“But what do you want with us? How can we serve you?” interrupted the man.

“Urgent business carries me to Alexandria. Can you give me a cast?”

inquired Teresa.

“Out of the question,” said the wife.

“I will pay you handsomely; two pieces of St. John the Baptist; that is,

ten livres of France.”

[Illustration]

“I don’t know how we could manage it,” observed the man. “In the first

place, the bench is so narrow that it will be scarcely possible to sit

three; though I own, signorina, ’tis no great matter of room you will

take up. In the next place, we are going only as far as the _Mercato_ of

Renigano, near Asti, which is only half-way to Alexandria.”

“No matter,” cried Teresa; “convey me only so far as to the gates of

Asti. But we must set out this very night—this very moment.”

“Impossible! quite impossible!” exclaimed both husband and wife at the

same moment. “We made no bargain of our night’s rest.”

“The sum shall be doubled,” said Teresa, in a lower voice, “if you will

only oblige me.”

The man and the woman interchanged looks of interrogation. “No,” cried

the wife, at last; “we shall fall ill of fatigue on the road. Besides,

Losca and Zoppa want rest. Do you wish to kill the poor mules?”

“Four pieces, remember!” murmured the husband. “Four pieces!”

“What is that to the value of Losca and Zoppa!”

“Double price, recollect, for only half the fare, and no danger to the

beasts.”

“Pho! pho! a single Venetian sequin is worth two _parpaîole_ of Genoa.”

Nevertheless, the notion of four crowns to be earned so easily was not

without its charm for either wife or husband, and at last, after farther

objections on one side, and supplications on the other, the mules were

brought out and re-harnessed. Teresa, enveloped in her mantle, to protect

her from the night air, arranged herself as well as she could on the

bench between the grumbling couple; and at length they set off on their

expedition. All the clocks in Turin were striking eleven as they passed

the gate of the city.

In her impatience to arrive and procure good tidings for transmission to

Fenestrella, Teresa would fain have found herself carried away by the

speed of impetuous coursers towards Alexandria. But alas! the vehicle

in which she had secured a place lumbered heavily along the road. The

mules paced steadily along, lifting their legs with measured precision,

so as to put in motion the little chime of bells, which imparted a still

cooler character to the nonchalance of their movements. For some time,

indeed, the fair traveller took patience, hoping the animals would become

gradually excited, or that the driver might urge them with a touch of

the whip. But finding his incitement limited to a slight clicking of the

tongue, she at length took courage to inform him that it was essential

to make all speed towards Asti, that she might arrive by day-break at

Alexandria.

“Take my word for it, my pretty maid,” replied the man, “that ’tis not a

whit more amusing to us than to yourself, to pass the night in counting

the stars. But the cobbler must stick to his last. My cargo, young lady,

consists of crockery ware, which I am conveying for sale to the fair of

Renigano, and if my mules were to take to the trot, I should have only

potsherds to produce at the end of my journey.”

“Are you, then, a crockery merchant?” exclaimed Teresa, in a tone of

consternation.

“China merchants,” remonstrated the wife.

“Alas! alas!” exclaimed the disappointed girl—“is it then impossible for

you to go a little faster?”

“Except by knocking to pieces my whole freight.”

“It is so important for me to arrive in time at Alexandria!”

“And for us to keep an eye to our goods.”

As an act of concession, however, he condescended to bestow a few

additional clickings upon his beasts; but the mules were too well broken

to their pace to risk their master’s property by quickening their speed.

Teresa now began to reproach herself with inconsideration, in not having

acquainted herself with the length of time necessary to reach Asti, or

personally attempted to discover in Turin some more expeditious mode

of conveyance. But she had nothing now left for it but patience. The

vehicle jogged on at its accustomed rate, Losca and Zoppa soon managed

to take the soft sides of the road, avoiding the rough jumbling of the

pavement; and at length, the merchant and his wife, after a few mutual

consultations respecting their chance of success at the fair of Renigano,

relapsed into silence; in the midst of which, soothed by the darkness,

oppressed by the cold, and lulled by the monotonous tinkling of the

mule-bells, Teresa was overpowered with drowsiness. Her head, which

wandered in search of a resting-place from the shoulder of the driver to

that of his wife, at length inclined heavily on her own bosom.

“Lean upon me, my poor child; and happy dreams to you!” said the man,

in a compassionate tone; and having accepted his offer, the overwearied

Teresa was soon in a deep sleep.

When she opened her eyes again, daylight was shining brightly upon

her. Startled to find herself in the open air, on the high road, she

strove to recall her bewildered recollections; and on attaining perfect

consciousness, perceived with horror that the vehicle was standing still,

and appeared to have been some time stationary. The merchant, his wife,

the very mules were fast asleep; not the slightest sound proceeded from

the chime of bells!

[Illustration]

Teresa now perceived at some distance on the road they had been

traversing the pinnacles of several steeples; and through the fantastic

grouping of the morning mists, fancied she could discern the heights of

the Superga, the Château of Mille Fiori, the Vigna della Regina, the

Church of the Capuchins, all the rich adornments of the noble hills

overhanging Turin.

“Merciful Heaven!” vociferated the poor girl—“we have scarcely got beyond

the suburbs!”

Roused by this exclamation, the driver rubbed his eyes and hastened to

reassure her. “We are approaching Asti,” said he. “The steeples you see

behind you are those of Renigano. No cause to find fault with Losca and

Zoppa; they can only just have begun their nap. Poor beasts! they have

earned their rest hardly. Heaven send they may not have profited by mine,

to make a trot of it.” Teresa smiled. “Gee! away with you, jades!” he

continued, with a crack of the whip which awoke both his wife and the

mules. And soon afterwards, at the gates of Asti, the worthy china-man

took leave of his passenger, assisted her to alight, and after signing

the cross over the twenty livres he received for her fare, turned

straight round with his mules, and made off deliberately for Renigano.

Half of her way to Alexandria was thus accomplished; but, alas! it was

now scarcely possible to arrive in time for the levee of the Emperor.

“Yet no doubt an Emperor must be late in rising!” thought Teresa; and

oh! how she longed to thrust below the horizon again the sun which was

just making its importunate appearance! Expecting that every thing

around her would bear tokens of her own agitation, she fancied the whole

population of Asti must be already astir, in preparation for a journey

to Alexandria; and that amid the confusion of carriages and carts about

to take the road, it would be easy to secure a place in some public

conveyance.

[Illustration]

What, therefore, was her astonishment, on entering the town, to find

the streets still silent and deserted, and the sun scarcely yet high

enough to shine on more than the roofs of the highest houses and the

dome of the church! It occurred to her at that moment that one of her

maternal relations resided at Asti, who might render her assistance;

and perceiving through the ground-floor window of a mean-looking house

the red glimmering of a fire, she knocked, and ventured to inquire her

way to the abode of her kinsman. A harsh voice answered her through the

window that, for the last three months, the individual in question had

been residing at his country-house at Monbercello; and thus disappointed,

and alone in the solitary streets of a strange town, Teresa began to

feel terrified and uneasy. To reanimate her courage, she turned towards

a Madonna, before which, in an adjoining niche, a lamp was burning, and

breathed her morning prayer. Scarcely had she concluded her orisons, when

she was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps, and a man soon

made his appearance.

“Can you tell me of a conveyance to Alexandria?” said she, civilly

accosting the stranger.

“Too late, my pretty one! every cart and carriage has been bespoken this

week past!” he replied, and hastened on his way.

A second man came by, to whom Teresa ventured to address the same

inquiry. But this time the answer was delivered in a harsh and reproving

tone.

“You want to be running after the French, then, _razza male_, _detta_?”

cried he, making off after his companion.

Teresa stood silent and intimidated at the accusation. At last,

perceiving a young workman singing as he proceeded gaily to his business,

she ventured to renew her inquiries.

“Aha, signorina!” cried he, in a tone of bantering, “you must needs make

one in the battle, eh? But there will be little room left yonder for

pretty damsels; better stay with us here, at Asti. ’Tis a fête to-day.

The dancing will begin early in the afternoon; and the _drudi ballarini_

will fall to breaking each other’s heads, to have you for a partner.

Faith, you are worth the trouble of a fight! Eh! what say you to a

skirmish in your honour?”

And, approaching Teresa Girardi, he was about to throw his arm round her

waist; but, startled by her indignant glance and exclamation, desisted,

and resumed his song and his occupation.

A fourth, a fifth, now traversed the street, but the poor girl no

longer hazarded an inquiry, but kept watching every opening door, and

peeping into every courtyard in hopes to find some carriage in waiting.

At length, by especial favour, she managed to obtain a place as far as

Annone. Between Annone and Felizano—between Felizano and Alexandria—she

was perplexed by a thousand farther difficulties. But with courage and

perseverance all were at length surmounted, and she arrived happily

at Alexandria. As she anticipated, the Emperor had already taken his

departure for Marengo; and without pausing a moment for deliberation,

she followed the crowd which was pouring from the suburbs along the road

towards the field of battle.

Hurried on with the multitude, pressed and jostled on all sides, watching

eagerly for openings in the crowd, skirting the outermost edges of the

road, Teresa neglected no opportunity of pushing forward. Undisturbed

by the clamour of the trumpets, the sports of the merry-andrews, or

the discourses of the monks, she pursued her way in the midst of the

laughing, yelling, shouting populace, which went leaping on in the heat

and dust—a poor solitary stranger, apart from the sports and the joys of

the day—her countenance anxious—her eye haggard—and raising her hand at

intervals to wipe away the dew from her weary brows.

But the whole force and fortitude of Teresa’s mind were devoted to her

progress. She has scarcely even found a moment for the contemplation of

the farther means to be adopted. But a halt being suddenly imposed upon

the crowd on reaching the outskirts of the field, she began to reflect on

the uneasiness the prolongation of her absence would cause to her father

(since the guide who had deserted her at Turin would not be permitted

to enter the prison). She thought of Charney accusing his messenger

of neglect and indifference; then felt for the petition in her bosom,

apprehensive that, by some unlucky chance, it might have escaped her.

At the idea of her father grieving over the unwonted absence of his

child, tears rushed into the eyes of Teresa; and it was from a reverie

produced by these painful emotions that she was recalled to herself by

the cries of joy bursting from the surrounding multitude. An open space

had been formed just beside the spot where she was resting, around which

the crowd seemed circling; and the moment Teresa turned her head to

ascertain the cause of the tumult, her hands were seized, and in spite of

her resistance, her depression, her fatigue, she found herself compelled

to take part in a _farandola_, which went whirling along the road,

recruiting all the pretty girls and sprightly lads who could be involved

in the diversion.

[Illustration]

Vexatious as was the interruption, Teresa at length found means to

disengage herself from such unsatisfactory society; and having contrived

by a painful effort to push her way through the crowd, she at length

obtained a glimpse of the vast plain glittering with troops; and her eyes

having wandered for some minutes over the splendid army, paused upon

the little hillock occupied by the imperial court. At the sight of the

throne, the aim and end of her perilous journey, Teresa’s heart leaped

for joy; her courage returned, her strength seemed renewed. All her

preceding cares were forgotten. But how to attain the wished-for spot?

How to traverse those battalions of men and horses? There was madness in

the very project!

But that which at first sight presented an obstacle, soon appeared to

farther her intentions. The foremost ranks of the crowd pouring in

torrents from Alexandria, having deployed to the right and left, on

reaching the plain, were gradually gaining the banks of the Tanaro and

the Bormida; where, at one moment, they pushed on so impetuously as to

seem on the point of taking possession of the field of battle. A small

body of cavalry instantly galloped towards the spot, waving their naked

sabres, and by the plunging of their chargers causing the terrified

crowd to return to the limits assigned them. The intruders evacuated

the territory as rapidly as they had gained it, with the exception of a

single individual: that individual was Teresa Girardi!

In an adjacent hollow of the plain, surrounded by a strong quickset

hedge, and sheltered by a small thicket of trees, flowed a spring of

limpid water; towards which, thrust onwards by the crowd of spectators,

the poor girl, whose eyes were fixed upon the throne in the distance,

found herself irresistibly impelled. Apprehensive every moment of

being crushed in the throng, she seized in her arms the trunk of the

nearest poplar tree; and closing her eyes, like a child who fancies

the danger has ceased to exist which it is not obliged to look upon,

remained motionless, her hearing confused by the rustling of the

surrounding foliage. The advance and retreat of the mob was, in fact, so

instantaneous, that when Teresa re-opened her eyes she was quite alone,

separated from the troops by the hedge and thicket, and from the crowd by

a column of dust, produced by the last detachment of fugitives. Throwing

herself at once into the little copse, she found herself in the centre

of about twenty poplar and aspen trees, overshadowing a crystal spring

welling out of the ground over a bed of ivy, moss and celandine, till,

bubbling onward in a silver thread, it gradually formed a brook capable

of traversing the plain, over which its course was defined by painted

tufts of blue forget-me-not, and the clusters of the white ranunculus.

The refreshing exhalations of the shady spot assisted to restore the

self-possession and strength of the exhausted girl. Teresa felt as though

she had reached an oasis of verdure in the desert, sheltered from dust,

and heat, and disturbance.

Meanwhile the plain has become suddenly quiet; she hears neither the word

of command, the huzza of the crowd, nor the neighing of the horses. All

she can discern is a singular movement overhead; and, looking up, Teresa

perceives every bough and spray of the trees to be covered with flights

of sparrows, driven to shelter from all quarters of the plain by the

alarming movement of the troops and the incursions of the crowd. The poor

birds, like the poor girl contemplating them, have taken refuge in that

verdant solitude, their little wings and throats apparently paralysed by

affright; for not a sound breaks from the band of feathered fugitives.

Even on the advance of a brigade of cavalry towards the thicket,

accompanied by the braying of trumpets, not a bird is seen to stir. They

appear to wait anxiously for the result; while a similar feeling prompts

Girardi’s daughter to look through the foliage upon the field.

Her eyes are quickly attracted by files of troops, which appear to have

cut off all communication between the thicket and the road.

“After all,” thought the trembling Teresa, “it is but a _sham_-fight that

is about to take place; and if I have been imprudent in venturing hither,

the Almighty, who knows the innocence of my heart, will keep me in time

of trouble!”

And, directing her attention through the opposite extremity of the

thicket, she discerns, at the distance of about three hundred paces,

the throne of Josephine and Napoleon. The space between is occupied by

the manœuvres of the soldiers; but every now and then the ground is

sufficiently cleared to admit of passing. Teresa now takes courage!—she

feels that a decisive moment is at hand. Having opened a way through the

hedge, she is about to advance, when the disorder of her toilet suddenly

occurring to her mind, brings blushes into her cheeks. Her tresses,

unbraided and dishevelled, are floating over her shoulders; her hands,

her face, her person, are disfigured with dust. To present herself in

such a condition before the sovereigns of Italy and France, were perhaps

to insure her rejection, and the failure of her anxious mission.

Re-entering the thicket, therefore, and drawing near to the spring, she

unties her large Leghorn hat, shakes out and smooths down her raven

hair, braids up the flowing tresses, bathes her hands and face; and,

having completed her morning toilet, breathes a prayer to Heaven for its

blessing upon the merciful purpose which hast cast her, thus defenceless,

into the ranks of an army.

While watching for an auspicious moment to recommence her course, the

stunning detonations of the cannon roar, from twenty different points,

into her ears. The ground seems to tremble under her feet; and, while

the poor girl stands motionless with consternation, the scared birds,

fluttering from the trees above, with discordant cries and bewildered

wings, make off for the woods of Valpedo and Voghera.

The fight has begun! Teresa, deafened by the roar of artillery and the

universal clamour, stands transfixed, gazing towards the throne, which is

sometimes concealed from her by clouds of smoke; sometimes by a screen of

lances or bayonets.

[Illustration]

After the lapse of half an hour, during which every idea seemed to

abandon her mind, but that of indescribable terror, the energy of

her soul resumed its force. She examined, with greater composure,

the obstacles with which she is beset; and decided that it may still

be possible to attain the imperial throne. Two columns of infantry,

prolonged into a double line, to which the flanks of the thicket form a

centre, were beginning to engage in an animated fire upon each other.

Under cover of the clouds of smoke, she trusted to make her way between

them, unobserved. Still, however, Teresa trembled at the attempt, when a

troop of hussars, burning with thirst, suddenly invaded her asylum, and

the maiden hesitated no longer. Her courage was roused, the moment her

modesty took the alarm. She rushed forth at once between two columns of

infantry; and when the smoke began to subside, the soldiers raised a cry

of astonishment, on perceiving in the midst of them the white dress and

straw hat of a young girl—a young and pretty Piedmontese—whom each made

it his immediate business to capture.

[Illustration]

At that moment a squadron of cuirassiers was galloping up to re-enforce

one of the lines, the captain of which was on the point of trampling down

the unfortunate Teresa; but, pulling up his horse in time, he gave her in

charge to two soldiers of the line; not, however, without a few oaths and

great wonder at such an apparition on the field of battle.

One of the two cuirassiers deputed to escort her to quarters quickly

raised her to his saddle; and it was thus she was conveyed to the

rear of the hillock, where a few ladies belonging to the suite of the

Empress were stationed, accompanied by an aid-de-camp and the _corps

diplomatique_ of the Italian deputations.

Teresa now fancied that her enterprise was accomplished. She had

surmounted too many difficulties to be discouraged by the few remaining;

and when, on her demand to be admitted to the Emperor, she was informed

that he was on the field, at the head of the troops, she entreated an

audience of the Empress. But this request appeared no less inadmissible

than the other. To get rid of her importunities, the bystanders had

recourse to intimidation, but Teresa’s courage rose against their

efforts. They insisted that she should at least wait the conclusion of

the evolutions; and were astonished to find her persist in forcing her

way towards the throne. Detained and threatened, her struggles became the

more vehement. It was then that, raising her voice in self-defence, its

piteous accents reached the ear of Josephine, to which the voice of a

female in distress and appealing to her protection, were never known to

be addressed in vain.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

Scarcely were the commands of the Empress issued that no farther

obstruction should be offered to the young stranger, when the brilliant

crowd opened, to yield a passage to Teresa Girardi, who appeared in the

midst of the throng, in a suppliant attitude, as if scarcely aware of

being released from the detention of her captors.

But on a sign from Josephine—a gracious sign, instantly recognised by

those around as a token of indulgence—the young Piedmontese was set at

liberty; and, on finding herself free, Teresa rushed to the foot of the

throne, breathless with agitation, and, bending low before the Empress,

proceeded to unfold a handkerchief which she had taken from her bosom.

“A poor prisoner, madam,” said she, “implores the clemency of your

majesty.” But, with every disposition to indulgence, it was impossible

for the Empress to divine the meaning of the strange-looking handkerchief

which Teresa Girardi, sinking on one knee, tendered to her hands.

“Have you a petition to present to me?” demanded Josephine at last, of

the trembling girl, in a tone of encouragement.

“_This_, madam, is a petition; this is the memorial of an unfortunate

captive!” persisted Teresa, still holding up the handkerchief. But tears

of terror and anxiety, flowing down her cheeks, almost concealed the

smile which the gracious affability of the Empress had for a moment

called into existence.

“Rise, my poor girl, rise!” said Josephine, in a tone of compassion. “You

appear deeply interested in the welfare of the petitioner!”

Teresa blushed, and hung down her head. “I have never even spoken to him,

madam,” she replied; “but he is so deserving of pity! If your majesty

would deign to read the statement of his misfortunes——”

Josephine now unfolded the handkerchief, touched to the heart by the

evidence of misery and destitution conveyed in such a substitute for

writing-paper. Pausing, however, after she had perused the first line of

the petition, she exclaimed, “But this is addressed to the emperor!”

“And are you not his wife?” cried Teresa. “Deign, deign to read on! Every

moment is of consequence. Indeed, there is no time to be lost!”

[Illustration: _Teresa before the Empress._]

The fight was now at the hottest. The Hungarian column, though exposed to

the severe fire of Marmont’s artillery, was formidable in its movements:

Zach and Desaix were face to face; and the result of their encounter was

to decide the destinies of the battle. The cannonade became general;

the field seemed to vomit flames and smoke; while the clamour of the

soldiers, uniting with the clang of arms, and call of trumpets, agitated

the air like a tempest. And it was while all this was proceeding around

her, that the Empress attempted to give her attention to the following

lines:

“SIRE: The removal of two stones from the pavement of the court

of my prison will scarcely shake the foundation of your empire;

and such is the favour I presume to ask of your majesty. It

is not for myself I appeal to your protection. But in the

stony desert in which I am expiating my offences against your

government, a single living thing has solaced my sufferings,

and shed a charm over my gloomy existence! A plant—a flower

springing spontaneously among the stones of Fenestrella, is

the object of my solicitude. Let not your majesty accuse me

of folly—of madness; it needs to have been a prisoner, to

appreciate the value of such a friend. To this poor flower am

I indebted for discoveries which have dispelled the mists of

error from my eyes, for my restoration to reason, for my peace

of mind, nay, for my very life! It is dear to me, sire, as

glory to yourself.

[Illustration]

“Yet, at this moment, my precious plant is perishing before

my eyes, for want of a little space for the expansion of its

roots; and the Commandant of Fenestrella would fain submit

to the Governor of Turin my petition for the removal of the

two miserable stones that impede its growth. By the time that

wisdom has decided the question, the plant will be dead; and

it is therefore to your compassion, sire, I appeal for the

preservation of my plant. Issue orders that may yet preserve

it from destruction, and myself from despair—I implore it on

my bended knees; and should you deign to favour my suit, the

benefit vouchsafed by your majesty shall be recorded in the

inmost depths of my heart!

“I admit, sire, that this poor plant has softened the vengeance

doomed by your majesty to fall upon my devoted head; but it has

also subdued my pride, and cast me a suppliant at your feet.

From the height of your double throne, deign, therefore, to

extend a pitying glance towards us. It is not for your majesty

to appreciate the power exercised by solitary confinement

over even the strongest heart, the most iron fortitude. I

do not complain of my captivity; I support my sentence with

resignation. Be its duration as that of my own life; but spare,

oh, spare my plant!

“The favour I thus presume to implore, must be conceded,

sire, on the spot, without the delay of a single hour! On

the brow of the human criminal, justice may hold her sword

suspended, in order to enhance the after-sentence of pardon;

but nature’s laws are more prompt in their operation. Delay

but a single day, and even the mighty power of your majesty

will be unavailing to farther the petition of the prisoner of

Fenestrella.

CHARNEY.”

At that instant a sudden discharge of artillery seemed to rend asunder

the atmosphere, and immediately the thick smoke, cut into circles and

lozenges by the thousand lightnings of the discharge, seemed to cover

the field with a network of light and shade. But on the cessation of

the firing, the curtain of smoke seemed gradually drawn aside; and a

brilliant spectacle was given to view, sparkling under the radiance of

the sun—even that noble charge, in the original of which Desaix lost his

life. Zach and his Hungarians, repulsed in front by Bondet, harassed on

the left flank by the cavalry of Kellermann, were already thrown into

disorder; after which, the intrepid consul, re-establishing his line

of battle from Castel-Ceriola to St. Julian, resumed the offensive,

overthrew the imperialists at every point, and forced Melas to a speedy

retreat.

This sudden change of position, these grand movements of the army, this

flux and reflux of the human tide, at the command of a single voice,

the voice of a chief, motionless and calm in the midst of the general

disorder, might have sufficed to produce an impression on the coldest

imagination. From the groups surrounding the throne, accordingly, burst

cries of triumph, and exulting acclamations; when the Empress, startled

by the contrast afforded by these “vivats” to the hoarse uproar of the

battle-field, was instantly roused from her reverie to a sense of what

was passing around her. For to all those brilliant manœuvres and imposing

spectacles the future Queen of Italy had remained insensible; her

feelings and looks alike preoccupied by the extraordinary memorial that

still fluttered in her hand.

Teresa Girardi, meanwhile, attentive to every gesture of the Empress,

felt instantaneously reassured by the soft smile of sympathy which

overspread the countenance of Josephine while perusing the petition.

With a beating heart, she stooped to imprint a grateful kiss on the hand

extended towards her, a hand how puissant amid all its fragile fairness,

for on its slender finger glittered the nuptial ring of Napoleon!

Dismissed by this gracious movement from the presence of the Empress,

Teresa now hastened towards the women’s quarters; and as soon as the

field of Marengo was cleared of its multitudes, proceeded to the nearest

chapel, to tender to her sovereign protectress, the Holy Virgin, an

offering of prayer and tears, the token of her heartfelt gratitude; for

in the condescension of Josephine she fancied she had obtained a pledge

for the eventual fulfilment of her wishes.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

The sympathy of the Empress-Queen had been, in fact, warmly excited by

the memorial of the captive of Fenestrella. Every word of the petition

conveyed the most touching appeal to her feelings. Josephine herself

was an almost idolatrous lover of flowers; as the permanent advantages

derived in France from her liberal encouragement of botanical science and

patronage of its professors continue to attest. Escaping from the cares

and splendours of sovereignty, often did the empress recede from the

courtier throng, to watch the expansion of some rare exotic, in her fine

conservatories at Malmaison. There was the favourite empire of Josephine!

She loved the imperial purple of the rich cactus, at that period a

splendid novelty to European eyes, better than the hues of the rich

mantle adorning her throne; and the delicate fragrance of her clustering

magnolias proved more intoxicating than the soothing but fatal breath of

courtly adulation. At Malmaison she reigned despotic over thousands of

beauteous subjects, collected from all quarters of the globe. She knew

them face by face, name by name—was fond of disposing them in classes,

castes, or regiments; and when some fresh subject presented itself for

the first time at her levee, was able to interrogate the new-comer, so

as to ascertain his family and connections, and assign him an appropriate

station in the community of which every brigade had its banner, and every

banner a fitting standard-bearer.

Following the example of Napoleon, she respected the laws and customs

of those she rendered tributary. Plants of all countries found their

native soil and climate restored to them by her providence. Malmaison

was a world in miniature; within whose circumscribed limits were to be

found rocks and savannas—the soil of virgin forests and the sand of the

desert—banks of marl or clay—lakes, cascades, and strands liable to

inundation. From the heat of a tropical climate, you might fly to the

refreshing coolness of the temperate zone; and in these varied specimens

of atmosphere and soil, flourished, side by side, the various races of

vegetative kind, divided only by green edges or an intrenchment of glass

windows.

When Josephine held her field-days at Malmaison, the review was indeed

calculated to excite the tenderest associations. First in the ranks was

the hydrangea, which had recently borrowed from her charming daughter

its French name of Hortensia. Glory, too, found its reminiscences there,

as well as maternal affection. Following the victories of Bonaparte, she

contrived to reap her share in the plunder of conquered countries; and

Italy and Egypt paid tribute to her triumphant parterres. Blooming in

resplendent union at Malmaison were the soldanella of the Alps—the violet

of Parma—the adonis of Castiglione—the carnation of Lodi—the willow and

plane of Syria—the cross of Malta—the water-lily of the Nile—the hibiscus

of Palestine—the rose of Damietta. Such were the conquests of Josephine:

and of those, at least, France still retains the benefits!

But even in the midst of these treasures, Josephine still cultivated,

by predilection, a plant reminding her of her days of happy childhood;

that beautiful jasmine of Martinique, whose seeds, gathered and resown by

her own hand, served to bring to her recollection not only the sports of

girlhood and the roof of her fathers, but her earliest home of wedded

love.

With such pursuits and attachments, how could she fail to appreciate

the passion of the prisoner for his flower—his only flower—his only

companion! The widow of Beauharnais was not always the happy and

prosperous inmate of a consular or imperial palace. Josephine has herself

tasted the bitterness of captivity; and the lesson is not thrown away.

Nor has she altogether forgotten the brilliant, successful, but proud

and _insouciant_ Count de Charney; formerly so contemptuous amid the

pleasures of the world, and so incredulous in the existence of human

affections. To what is she to attribute the singular change in his style

and temper? What influence has sufficed to soften that haughty character?

He, who once refused the homage of his knee to the Most High, now kneels

to a human throne to supplicate in utmost humility for the preservation

of a plant!

“The flower which has wrought so great a miracle,” thought the Empress,

with a smile, “deserves to be preserved from destruction!” And eager to

accomplish her benevolent purpose, she grew impatient of the protraction

of the fight, and would fain have put an end to the last evolutions, in

order to hasten her measures in favour of her petitioner.

[Illustration]

The moment Napoleon, surrounded by his generals, made his reappearance,

exhausted by his exertions, and doubtless expecting compliments from her

lips, the Empress presented the handkerchief to his astonished eyes,

exclaiming, “An order from your hand, sire; an order for the commandant

of Fenestrella! and an express to despatch it to the fortress!”

In the earnestness of her purpose, her voice assumed an imperial tone,

and her eyes an expression of impatience, as if some new conquest were

within reach, and it was _her_ turn to assume command and authority.

But after surveying her from head to foot with an air of surprise and

dissatisfaction, the Emperor turned on his heel and passed on without a

word. As if still reviewing his troops, he appeared only to be finishing

his inspection by the last individual of the brigade.

[Illustration]

Impelled by the force of habit, he next proceeded to examine the field of

action, unmoistened indeed with blood, but covered with trophies of the

early harvest, cut down by his victorious troops: fields of corn and rice

were trampled or hacked into chaff! In some spots, the earth itself was

ploughed into deep channels by the manœuvres of the artillery; while here

and there were scattered the buff-leather gloves of the dragoons, broken

plumes, or shreds of gold lace—nay, even a few limping foot-soldiers and

chargers, lamed in the affray, still encumbered the ground.

At one moment of the day, however, more serious consequences than

these appeared imminent. The French soldiers appointed to occupy, as

Austrians, the village of Marengo, resenting the part assigned them as

beaten troops, had chosen to prolong their resistance beyond the period

specified in the programme; and a violent struggle took place between

them and their opponents. The two regiments happened to be irritated

against each other by the jealousies of garrison rivalship; and mutual

insults and challenges having been exchanged on the spot, bayonets were

crossed in earnest between the two corps.

But for the immediate intervention of the general officers present, a

terrible contest would have taken place; and the mimic fight become only

too fatally a reality. With some difficulty, the troops were made to

fraternise, by an exchange of gourds; and these being unluckily empty,

in order to perfect the reconciliation, the cellars of the village

were laid under contribution. Excess now succeeded to obstinacy, but a

unanimous cry of “_Vive l’Empereur_” having been fortunately raised by

the men, the whole breach of discipline was placed to the account of

military enthusiasm; and, after twenty healths had been tossed off, the

gallant Austrians consented to stagger defeated from the field; while

the victorious French made their triumphal entry into Marengo, dancing

the farandola, singing the Marseillaise, and mingling occasionally in

their hurrahs the now forbidden cry of “_Vive la République_.” But

their insubordination was now justly attributed to the enthusiasm of

intemperance.

[Illustration]

The troops having been formed once more into line, Napoleon proceeded to

a distribution of crosses of honour among the old soldiers, who, five

years before, had fought with him on that memorable spot. A few of the

more eminent of the Cisalpine magistrates also received decorations on

the field: after which, accompanied by Josephine, the Emperor laid the

first stone of a monument, intended to perpetuate the victory of Marengo;

and the ceremonies of the morning accomplished, the whole court, followed

by the whole army, took their way back towards Alexandria.

All this time the destinies of Picciola remained undecided!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

To conclude the solemnities of the day, a public banquet was offered to

the Emperor and Empress by the city of Alexandria, in the Town Hall,

which was splendidly decorated for the occasion; after which, their

majesties, wearied by their exertions, retired to pass the evening in one

of the private apartments allotted to their use. The Emperor and Empress

were now together, attended only by the secretary of the former; and,

while dictating his despatches, Napoleon continued to pace the room,

rubbing his hands with an air of satisfaction. Josephine, meanwhile,

stood beguiling the time allotted by her lord to the duties of empire,

by admiring, in one of the lofty mirrors of the saloon, the elegant

coquetry of her own dress, and the splendour of the jewels in which she

was arrayed.

After the departure of the secretary, the Emperor took his seat; and,

while resting his elbow on a table covered with crimson velvet, richly

fringed with gold, he fell into a train of reflection, announced by the

expression of his countenance, of a highly agreeable nature. But the

silence in which he was absorbed was far from satisfactory to Josephine.

She felt that he had deported himself harshly towards her that morning,

in the affair of the Fenestrella memorial. But she was beginning to

perceive that she had been precipitate in pressing her request at an

inauspicious moment; and promised herself to repair the injury she might

have done her _protégé_, by referring, at a more convenient season, his

petition to the Emperor. The happy moment, she fancied, was now arrived!

Seating herself at the table, exactly opposite to Napoleon, and resting,

like himself, her chin upon her hand, she met his inquiring looks with a

smile, and demanded the subject of his cogitations.

“Of what am I thinking?” replied the Emperor, in a cheerful tone—“that

the imperial diadem is a very becoming ornament; and that I should have

been much to blame if I had not added such a trinket to your majesty’s

casket.”

The smiles of Josephine subsided as he spoke, while those of the

Emperor brightened. He was fond of repressing those nervous tremors

and evil auguries on the part of the Empress, naturally excited by the

extraordinary change of condition which had elevated a simple subject to

the imperial throne.

“Are you not better pleased to salute me Emperor than general?” he

persisted, without noticing her serious looks.

“I am—for the higher title endows you with the prerogative of mercy,” she

replied; “and I have an appeal to make to your clemency.”

It was now Napoleon’s turn to relapse into gravity. Knitting his brows,

he prepared himself sternly for resistance—ever on the watch lest the

influence of Josephine over his mind should beguile him into some

culpable weakness in matters of state.

“How often have you promised me,” said he in a tone of severity, “to

interfere no more with the course of public justice? Do you suppose that

the privilege of according pardon is assigned to sovereigns, that they

may gratify the caprices of their private feelings? Mercy should be

exercised only to soften the too rigorous justice of the laws, or rectify

the errors of public tribunals. To extend one’s hand in continual acts

of forgiveness, is wantonly to multiply and strengthen the ranks of the

enemies of government.”

“Nevertheless, sire,” remonstrated Josephine, concealing with her

handkerchief the tendency to mirth which she could scarcely repress, “you

will certainly comply with the request I am about to make.”

“I doubt it.”

“And I persist in my opinion; for it is an act of justice rather than of

clemency, I implore at your hands. I demand that two oppressors should

be removed from the post they hold! Yes, sire—let them be dismissed with

ignominy—let them be condemned, and discarded for ever from the service

of your majesty!”

“How, Josephine!” cried Napoleon, “it is by _your_ lips that for once I

am instigated to severity? Have _you_ become the advocate of punishment?

Upon whom, pray, are you thus desirous to call down vengeance?”

“Upon two flagstones, sire, which are superfluous in the pavement of

a courtyard!” replied the Empress, indulging, unrestrained, in the

merriment she had so long found it difficult to repress.

“Two flagstones! are you making a jest of me?” cried Napoleon, in a

severe tone, piqued at supposing himself treated with levity by his wife.

“Never was I more truly in earnest,” replied Josephine, “for on the

removal of these two stones depends the happiness of a suffering human

being. Let me entreat your majesty’s attention to a history that requires

your utmost indulgence, both towards myself and its unfortunate object.”

And without farther circumlocution, she proceeded to acquaint him with

the particulars of her singular interview with Teresa Girardi, and the

devoted services of the poor girl towards a friendless prisoner, whose

name she studiously kept concealed. While enlarging on the sufferings of

the captive, on his passion for his plant, and the disinterestedness of

his young and lovely advocate—all the natural eloquence of a humane and

truly feminine heart flowed from her lips, and irradiated her speaking

countenance.

Impressed by the animation of her gestures, a respondent smile played

upon the lips of the Emperor; but that smile, alas! was an exclusive

tribute to the attractions and excellencies of his wife!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

During this tedious interval, the unhappy Charney was counting the hours,

the minutes, the seconds, with the utmost impatience: he felt as if the

minutest divisions of time were maliciously heaping themselves together,

to weigh down the head of his devoted flower!

Two days had now elapsed. The messenger brought back no tidings; and even

the venerable Girardi was growing uneasy, and beginning to deduce evil

auguries from the absence of his daughter. Hitherto, however, he had

not named his messenger to the Count; and, while trying to awaken hope

in the heart of his companion, experienced the mortification of hearing

accusations against the zeal and fidelity of the person to whom the

mission had been intrusted. Girardi could no longer refrain from accusing

himself in secret of having hazarded the safety of his child. “Teresa,

my daughter, my dear daughter!” he exclaimed, amid the stillness of his

gloomy chamber, “what—what has become of you?” And, lo! the third day

came, and no Teresa made her appearance.

When the fourth arrived, Girardi had not strength to show himself at the

window. Charney could not even catch a glimpse of his fellow-prisoner;

but had he lent a more attentive ear, he might, perhaps, have overheard

the supplications, broken by sobs, addressed to Heaven by the poor old

man, for the safety of his only child. A dark veil of misery seemed

suddenly to have overspread that little spot; where, but a short time

before, in spite of the absence of liberty, cheerfulness and contentment

diffused their enlivening sunshine.

The very plant was progressing rapidly to its last; and Charney found

himself compelled to watch over the dying moments of his Picciola. He

had now a double cause for affliction: a dread of losing the object of

his attachment, and of having degraded himself by useless humiliation—if

he should have humbled himself in the dust, only to be repulsed from the

footstool of the usurper.

As if the whole world were in a conspiracy against him, Ludovico,

formerly so kind, so communicative, so genuine, seemed unwilling now to

address to him a single word. Taciturn and morose, the jailer came and

went, passed through the court, or returned by the winding staircase,

with his pipe in his mouth, as if to avoid uttering a syllable. He seemed

to have taken a spite against the affliction of his captive. The fact

was, that from the moment the refusal of the commandant had been made

known, the jailer began to prepare for the moment which he foresaw was

about to take place before him, the alternative of his duty and his

inclination. Duty, he knew, must eventually prevail; and he affected

sullenness and brutality, by way of gaining courage for the effort.

Such is the custom of persons unrefined by the polish of education. In

fulfilling whatever harsh functions may be assigned them, they try to

extinguish every generous impulse in their souls, rather than soften

them by courtesy of deportment. Poor Ludovico’s goodness of heart was

rarely demonstrated in _words_; and where kindly _deeds_ were interdicted

by those in authority over him, his secret compassion usually found

vent in surliness towards the very victim exciting his commiseration.

If his ill-humour should call forth resentment, so much the better: his

duty became all the easier. War is indispensable between victim and

executioner, prisoner and jailer.

[Illustration]

When the dinner hour arrived, Ludovico, finding Charney transfixed in

mournful contemplation beside his plant, took care not to present himself

in the gay mood with which he was wont to accost the Count; sometimes

sportively addressing his god-daughter as “_Giovanetta, fanciuletta_,” or

inquiring after the health of the “Count and Countess;” but, traversing

the court in haste, without noticing his prisoner, he pretends to suppose

him in the chamber above. By some accidental movement, however, on the

part of Charney, Ludovico suddenly found himself face to face with the

captive; and was shocked to perceive the change which the lapse of a

few days had effected in his countenance. Impatience and anxiety had

furrowed his brow, and discoloured his lips, and wasted his cheeks; while

the disorder of his hair and beard served to increase the wildness of

his aspect. Against his will, Ludovico stood motionless, contemplating

these melancholy changes; but, suddenly, calling to mind his previous

resolutions, he cast an eye upon the flower, winked ironically, shrugged

his shoulders, whistled a lively air, and was about to take his

departure, when Charney murmured, in a scarcely recognisable voice, “What

injury have I done to you, Ludovico?”

“_Me!_—done to _me_! None, that I know of,” replied the jailer, more

deeply touched than he cared to show, by the plaintiveness of this

apostrophe.

“In that case,” said the Count, advancing towards him and seizing him by

the hand, “be still my friend! Aid me while there is yet time! I have

found means of evading all objections! The commandant can have no farther

scruples—nay, he need not know a word of the matter. Procure me only a

box of earth—we will gently raise the stones for a moment and transplant

the flower——”

“Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!” interrupted Ludovico, drawing back his hand. “The devil

take the gilly-flower, for aught I care! She has done mischief enough

already; beginning with yourself, who are about, I see, to have another

fit of illness. Better make a pitcher of tisane of her before ’tis too

late.”

Charney replied by an eloquent glance of scorn and indignation.

“If it were only yourself who had to suffer,” resumed Ludovico, “you

would have yourself to thank, and there would be an end on’t. But there

is a poor old man, whom you have deprived of his daughter; for Signor

Girardi will see no more of his unhappy Teresa.”

“Deprived of his daughter!” cried the Count, his eyes dilating with

horror, “how?—in what manner?”

“Ay! _how?_ in what manner?” pursued the jailer, setting down his basket

of provisions, and taking the attitude of one about to administer a harsh

reprimand. “People lay the whip to the horses, and pretend to wonder when

the carriage rolls on. People let fly the stiletto, and pretend to wonder

when blood flows from the wound. _Trondidio! O che frascheria!_ You

choose to write to the Emperor—’twas your own affair: you wrote. Well and

good! You infringed the discipline of the prison, and the commandant will

find ’tis time to punish you. Well and good again. But, because you must

needs have a trusty messenger to convey your unlucky letter, nothing less

would serve you than to employ the _povera damigella_ on your fool’s

errand!”

“How!—you mean that Girardi’s daughter——”

“Ay, ay! open your eyes, and look surprised,” interrupted Ludovico. “Did

you suppose that your correspondence with the Emperor was to be conveyed

by the telegraph? The telegraph, sir, has got other business on hand. All

that I have got to tell you is, that the commandant has discovered the

whole plot; perhaps through the guide (for the _Giovana_ could not hazard

herself alone on such an expedition). And so she is forbid to re-enter

the fortress. Her poor father will behold her face no more. And through

whose fault, I should like to know?”

Charney covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.

“Unhappy Girardi! have I, indeed, deprived thee of thine only

consolation?” cried he, at last. Then, turning to Ludovico, he inquired

whether the old man was apprised of what had befallen him.

“He has known it since yesterday,” replied the jailer; “and no doubt

loves you all the better. But make haste! your dinner is getting cold!”

Charney, overwhelmed with grief, sank upon his bench. A momentary pang

suggested to him to crush Picciola at once, executing retributive

justice upon her with his own hand. But he had not courage for a deed so

ruthless; and a faint hope already seemed to glimmer in the distance,

for his favourite. The young maiden, who had thus generously devoted

herself to serve him, must be already returned. Perhaps she had been able

to approach the Emperor? Yes! doubtless she has been admitted to the

honour of an audience; and it is this discovery which has so irritated

the commandant against her. The commandant may possibly have in his

possession an order for the liberation of Picciola! In that case how

dares he venture on further delay? The commands of the Emperor _must_ be

obeyed. “Blessings, blessings,” thought Charney, “on the noble girl who

has befriended us—the girl whom I have been the means of separating from

her father! Teresa! sweet Teresa! how willingly would I sacrifice half my

existence for thy sake—for thy happiness—nay, what would I _not_ give for

the mere power of opening to thee once again the gates of the fortress of

Fenestrella!”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

Scarcely half an hour had elapsed after the intimation conveyed by

Ludovico, when two municipal officers, arrayed in their tri-coloured

scarfs of office, presented themselves, accompanied by the commandant,

before the Count de Charney, and requested him to accompany them to his

own chamber; on arriving in which, the commandant addressed his prisoner

with considerable pomposity and deliberation.

The commandant was a man of dignified corpulency, having a round bald

head, and gray and bushy whiskers. A deep scar, extending from his left

eyebrow to the upper lip, seemed to divide his face in two. A long, blue,

uniform coat, with prodigious skirts, buttoned closely to the chin,

top-boots over his pantaloons, a slight tint of powder on his remnant of

a braided pigtail, and scanty side-curls, spurs to his boots (by way of

distinction, doubtless, for the rheumatism had long constituted him chief

prisoner in his own citadel)—such were the outward and visible signs of

the dignitary, whose only warlike weapon was the cane on which his gouty

limbs leaned for support.

Appointed to the custody of prisoners of state alone, most of whom were

members of families of distinction, the commandant piqued himself on his

good breeding, in spite of frequent outbreaks of fury: and, in spite of

certain infractions of prosody and syntax, on the chosen elegance of

his language. He was upright, moreover, as a pikestaff; rejoiced in an

emphatic and sonorous voice; flourished his hand when he attempted a bow,

and scratched his head when he attempted a speech. Thus qualified and

endowed, the brave Morand, captain and commandant of Fenestrella, passed

for a fine soldierlike-looking man, and an efficient public functionary.

From the courteous tone assumed in his initiatory address, and the

professional attitude of the two commissaries by whom he was accompanied,

Charney fancied that their sole business was to deliver to him a reprieve

for his unhappy Picciola. But the commandant’s next sentence consisted

in an inquiry, whether, upon any specific occasion, the prisoner had

to complain of his want of courtesy or abuse of authority. The Count,

still flattering himself that such a preamble augured well for the

accomplishment of his hopes, certified all, and more than all, that

civility seemed to require in reply to this leading question.

“You cannot, I imagine, sir, have forgotten,” persisted the commandant,

“the care and kindness lavished upon you during your illness? If it

was not your pleasure to submit to the prescriptions of the physicians

appointed to visit you, the fault was neither theirs nor mine, but your

own. When it occurred to me that your convalescence might be accelerated

by a greater facility for taking air and exercise, you were instantly

allowed, at all times and seasons, access to the prison-court?”

Charney inclined his head in token of grateful affirmation. But

impatience of the good man’s circumlocution already caused him to

compress his lips.

“Nevertheless, sir,” resumed the commandant, in the tone of a man

whose feelings have been wounded, and whose advances were repaid with

ingratitude, “you have not scrupled to infringe the regulations of the

fortress, of the tenor of which you could not have been ignorant;

compromising me thereby in the eyes of General Menon, the governor of

Piedmont; nay, perhaps, of his gracious majesty the Emperor himself. The

memorial which you have contrived to place before him——”

[Illustration]

“Place before him!” interrupted Charney; “has he then received it?”

“Of course he has received it.”

“And the result—the result!” cried the Count, trembling with anxiety;

“what has been decreed?”

“That, as a punishment for your breach of discipline, you are to be

confined a month in the dungeon of the northern bastion of the fortress

of Fenestrella.”

“But what said the Emperor to my application?” cried the Count, unable to

resign at once all his cherished hopes of redress.

“Do you suppose, sir, that the Emperor has leisure for the consideration

of any such contemptible absurdities?” was the disdainful reply of the

commandant; on which Charney, throwing himself in complete abstraction

into the only chair the chamber happened to contain, became evidently

unconscious of all that was passing around him.

“This is not all!” resumed the commandant; “your communications with

the exterior of the fortress, being thus ascertained, it is natural to

suppose that your correspondence may have been more extensive than we

know of, and I beg to inquire whether you have addressed letters to any

person besides his majesty the Emperor?”

To this address Charney vouchsafed no reply.

“An official examination of your chamber and effects is about to take

place,” added the man in authority. “These gentlemen are appointed by the

governor of Turin for the inquisitorial duty, which they will discharge

punctually, according to legal form, in your presence. But previous to

the execution of the warrant, I request to know whether you have any

personal revelations to make? Voluntary disclosures, sir, might operate

favourably in your behalf.”

Still, however, the prisoner remained obstinately silent; and the

commandant, knitting his brows and contracting his high forehead into a

hundred solemn wrinkles, assumed an air of severity, and motioned to the

delegates of General Menon to proceed with their duty. They immediately

began to ransack the chamber, from the chimney and palliasse of the

bed, to the linings of the coats of the prisoner; while Morand paced up

and down the narrow chamber, tapping with his cane every square of the

flooring, to ascertain whether excavations existed for the concealment

of papers or preparations for flight. He called to mind the escape of

Latude and other prisoners from the Bastille; where moats, both deep and

wide, walls ten feet thick—gratings, counterscarps, drawbridges, ramparts

bristled with cannon and palisades, sentinels at every postern, on every

parapet—had proved insufficient to baffle the perseverance of a man

armed with a cord and a nail! The Bastille of Fenestrella was far from

possessing the same iron girdle of strength and security. Since the year

1796, the fortifications had been in part demolished, and the citadel was

now defended only by a few sentries, planted on the external bastion.

After a search prolonged as far as the limited space would allow, nothing

of a suspicious nature was brought to light, with the exception of a

small vial, containing a blackish liquid, which had probably served the

prisoner for ink. Interrogated as to the means by which it came into his

possession, Charney turned towards the window, and began tapping with his

fingers on the glass, without condescending to reply to the importunate

querists.

The dressing-case still remained to be examined, but, on being required

to give up the key, the Count, instead of presenting it with becoming

respect to the commandant, almost threw it into the hand extended towards

him.

Thus boldly defied in presence of his subordinates, the commandant

disdained all farther attempts at conciliation. He was, in fact,

suffocating with rage. His eyes sparkled, his complexion became livid,

and he bustled up and down the little chamber, buttoning and unbuttoning

his coat, as if to exhaust the transports of his repressed indignation.

[Illustration]

At length, by a spontaneous movement, the two sbirri, occupied in the

examination of the casket, holding it in one hand and turning over its

contents with the other, advanced towards the window, to ascertain

whether it contained secret drawers, and immediately exclaimed, in tones

of triumph, “All’s right! The mystery is in our hands.”

Drawing out from beneath the false bottom of the case a number of

cambric handkerchiefs, closely scribbled over and carefully folded, they

were satisfied of having obtained possession of the proofs of a widely

organized conspiracy; for at this profanation of the sacred archives so

dear to him, Charney started up and extended his hand to snatch back

the treasures of which he saw himself despoiled. Then, struck by the

consciousness of his own incapacity of resistance, he reseated himself in

his chair, without uttering a syllable of remonstrance.

But the impetuosity of his first movements was not lost upon the

governor; who saw at once that the documents which had fallen into his

hands were of the highest importance in the estimation of the Count. The

handkerchiefs, therefore, were deposited, on the spot, in a government

despatch-bag, duly sealed and docketed. Even the soot-bottle and

tooth-pick were confiscated to the state! A report was drawn up of the

proceedings which had taken place, to which the signature of Charney was

formally demanded—impatiently refused—and the refusal duly recorded at

the end of the document; after which, the commandant issued his mandate

for the immediate transfer of the prisoner to the northern bastion.

What vague, confused, and painful emotions prevailed, meanwhile, in

the mind of the prisoner! Charney was alive only to a single stroke of

his afflictions; a stroke which deadened his consciousness of all the

rest. He had not so much as a smile of pity to bestow upon the imaginary

triumph of the blockheads who were carrying off what they supposed to be

the groundwork of a criminal impeachment; but which consisted in a series

of scientific observations upon the growth and properties of his plant.

Yes, even his tenderest recollections snatched from his possession, and

an impassioned lover required to give up the letters of his mistress,

can alone enter into the despair of the captive. To preserve Picciola

from destruction, he had tarnished his honour, his self-esteem; broken

the heart of a benevolent old man; destroyed the happiness of a gentle

and lovely girl; and of all that had sufficed to attach him to a life of

wretchedness. Every trace is now effaced—every record destroyed—the very

journal of those happy hours which he had enjoyed in the presence of his

idol, is torn for ever from his possession!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

The intervention of Josephine in Charney’s favour had not proved so

efficient as might have been supposed. At the conclusion of her mild

intercessions in favour of the prisoner and his plant, when she proceeded

to place in the hands of Napoleon the handkerchief inscribed with his

memorial, the Emperor recalled to mind the singular indifference—so

mortifying to his self-love—with which, during the warlike evolutions of

the morning at Marengo, Josephine had cast her vacant, careless gaze upon

the commemoration of his triumph. And thus predisposed to displeasure,

the obnoxious name of Charney served only to aggravate his ill-humour.

“Is the man mad?” cried he, “or does he pretend to deceive me by a farce?

A Jacobin turned botanist?—about as good a jest as Marat descanting in

the tribune on the pleasures of a pastoral life; or Couthon presenting

himself to the Convention with a rose in his button-hole!”

Josephine vainly attempted to appeal against the name of Jacobin thus

lightly bestowed upon the Count; for, as she commenced her remonstrance,

a chamberlain made his appearance to announce that the general officers,

ambassadors, and deputies of Italy, were awaiting their majesties in the

audience-chamber; where, having hastily repaired, Napoleon immediately

burst forth into a denunciation against visionaries, philosophers,

and liberals, mainly inspired by the recent mention of the Count de

Charney. In an imperious tone, he threatened that all such disturbers of

public order should be speedily reduced to submission; but the loud and

threatening tone he had assumed, which was supposed to be a spontaneous

outbreak of passion, was, in fact, a premeditated lesson bestowed on

the assembly; and more especially on the Prussian ambassador, who was

present at the scene. Napoleon seized the opportunity to announce to the

representatives of Europe the divorce of the Emperor of the French from

the principles of the French revolution!

By way of homage to the throne, the subordinates of the Emperor hastened

to emulate his new profession of faith. The general commandant at Turin,

more especially, Jacques-Abdallah Menon, forgetting or renouncing his

former principles, burst forth into a furious diatribe against the pseudo

Brutuses of the clubs and taverns of Italy and France; on which signal

arose from the minions of the empire a unanimous chorus of execrations

against all conspirators, revolutionists, and more especially Jacobins,

till, overawed by their virulence, Josephine began to tremble at the

storm she had been unwittingly the means of exciting. At length,

drawing near to the ear of Napoleon, she took courage to whisper, in a

tone of mingled tenderness and irony, “What need, sire, of all these

denunciations? My memorial regards neither a Jacobin nor a conspirator;

but simply a poor plant, whose plots against the safety of the empire

should scarcely excite such vast tumults of consternation.”

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders. “Can you suppose me the dupe of such

absurd pretences?” he exclaimed. “This Charney is a man of high

faculties and the most dangerous principles—would you pass him upon me

for a blockhead? The flower, the pavement, the whole romance, is a mere

pretext. The fellow is getting up a plan of escape! It must be looked to.

Menon! let a careful eye be kept upon the movements of those imprisoned

for political offences in the citadel of Fenestrella. One Charney has

presumed to address to me a memorial. How did he manage to forward his

petition otherwise than through the hands of the commandant? Is such the

discipline kept up in the state-prisons of the empire?”

Again the Empress ventured to interpose in defence of her _protégé_.

“Enough, madam, enough of this man!” exclaimed the commander-in-chief;

and discouraged and alarmed by the displeasure expressed in his words

and looks, Josephine cast down her eyes and was silent from confusion.

General Menon, on the other hand, mortified by the public rebuke

of the Emperor, was not sparing in the reprimand despatched to the

captain-commandant of the citadel of Fenestrella; who, in his turn, as we

have seen, vented his vexation on the prisoners committed to his charge.

Even Girardi, in addition to the cruel sentence of separation from his

daughter (who, on arriving full of hopes at the gate of the fortress, was

commanded to appear there no more), had been subjected, like Charney,

to a domiciliary visit, by which, however, nothing unsatisfactory was

elicited.

But emotions more painful than those resulting from the forfeiture of

his manuscripts, now awaited the Count; as he traversed the courtyard on

his way to the bastion with the commandant and his two acolytes, Captain

Morand, who had either passed without notice on his arrival, the fences

and scaffolding surrounding the plant, or was now stimulated by the

arrogant contumacy of Charney to an act of vengeance, paused to point out

to Ludovico this glaring breach of prison discipline manifested before

his eyes.

“What is the meaning of all this rubbish?” cried he. “Is _such_, sir, the

order you maintain in your department?”

“_That_, captain,” replied the jailer, in a half-hesitating,

half-grumbling tone, drawing his pipe out of his mouth with one hand and

raising the other to his cap in a military salute, “_that_, under your

favour, is the plant I told you of—which is so good for the gout and all

sorts of disorders.”

[Illustration]

Then, letting fall his arm by an imperceptible movement, he replaced his

pipe in its usual place.

“Death and the devil!” cried the captain, “if these gentlemen were

allowed to have their own way, all the chambers and courts of the citadel

might be made into gardens, menageries, or shops—like so many stalls at a

fair. Away with this weed at once, and everything belonging to it!”

Ludovico turned his eyes alternately towards the captain, the Count, and

the flower, and was about to interpose a word or two of expostulation.

“Silence!” cried the commandant; “silence, and do your duty.”

Thus fiercely admonished, Ludovico held his peace; removing the pipe

once more from his mouth, he extinguished it, shook out the dust, and

deposited it on the edge of the wall while he proceeded to business.

Deliberately laying aside his cap, his waistcoat, and rubbing his hands

as if to gain courage for the job, he paused a moment, then suddenly,

with a movement of anger, as if against himself or his chief, seized

the haybands and matting, and dispersed them over the court. Next went

the uprights which had supported them, which he tore up one after the

other, broke over his knee, and threw the pieces on the pavement. His

former tenderness for Picciola seemed suddenly converted into a fit of

abhorrence.

Charney, meanwhile, stood motionless and stupefied, his eyes fixed

wistfully upon the plant thus exposed to view, as if his looks could

still afford protection to its helplessness. The day had been cool, the

sky overclouded, and from the stem, which had rallied during the night,

sprang several little healthy, verdant shoots. It seemed as though

Picciola were collecting all her strength to die!

_To die!_ Picciola!—his own, his only!—the world of his existence and

his dreams, the pivot on which revolved his very life, to be reduced

to nothingness! Midway in his aspirations towards a higher sphere,

the flight of the poor captive, over whose head heaven has suspended

its sentence of expiation, is to be suddenly arrested! How will he

henceforward fill up the vacant moments of his leisure? how satisfy the

aching void in his own bosom? Picciola, the desert which thou didst

people is about to become once more a solitary wilderness! No more

visions, no more hopes, no more reminiscences, no more discoveries to

inscribe, no farther objects of affection! How narrow will his prison now

appear—how oppressive its atmosphere—the atmosphere of a tomb—the tomb of

Picciola! The golden branch—the sibylline divining rod, which sufficed

to exorcise the evil spirits by which he was beset, will no longer

protect him against himself! The sceptic—the disenchanted philosopher,

must return to his former mood of incredulity, and bear once more the

burden of his bitter thoughts, with no prospect before him but eternal

extinction! No, death were a thousand times preferable to such a destiny!

As these thoughts glanced through the mind of Charney, he beheld, at

the little grated window, the shadow of the venerable Girardi. “Alas!”

murmured the Count, “I have deprived him of all he had to live for; and

he comes to triumph over my affliction—to curse me—to deride me! And he

is right; for what are sorrows such as mine compared to those I have

heaped upon his revered head?”

Charney perceived the old man clasping the iron window-bars in his

trembling hands, but dared not meet his eyes and hazard an appeal to the

forgiveness of the only human being of whose esteem he was ambitious.

The Count dreaded to find that venerable countenance distorted by the

expression of reproach or contempt; and when at length their glances met,

he was touched to the soul by the look of tender compassion cast upon him

by the unhappy father—forgetful of his own sorrows in beholding those of

his companion in misfortune. The only tears that had ever fallen from

the eyes of the Count de Charney started at that trying moment! But,

consolatory as they were, he dried them hurriedly as they fell, in the

dread of exposing his weakness to the contempt and misapprehension of the

men by whom he was surrounded.

[Illustration]

Among the spectators of this singular scene, the two sbirri alone

remained indifferent to what was passing—staring vacantly at the

prisoner, the old man, the commandant, and the jailer; wondering what

reference their emotions might bear to the supposed conspiracy, and

nothing doubting that the mysterious plant, about to be dislodged, would

prove to have been a cover to some momentous hiding-place.

Meanwhile, the fatal operations proceeded. Under the orders of the

commandant, Ludovico was attempting to take up the rustic bench, which at

first seemed to resist his feeble efforts.

“A mallet—take a mallet!” cried Captain Morand.

Ludovico obeyed; but the mallet fell from his hands.

“Death and the devil! how much longer am I to be kept waiting?” now

vociferated the captain; and the jailer immediately let fall a blow,

under which the bench gave way in a moment. Mechanically, Ludovico bent

down towards his god-daughter, which was now alone and undefended in the

court; while the Count stood ghastly and overpowered, big drops of agony

rising upon his brow.

“Why destroy it, sir? why destroy it? You must perceive that the plant is

about to die!” he faltered, descending once more to the abject position

of a suppliant. But the captain replied only by a glance of ironical

compassion. It was now his turn to remain silent!

[Illustration]

“Nay, then,” cried Charney, in a sort of frenzy, “since it must needs be

sacrificed, it shall die by no hand but mine!”

“I forbid you to touch it!” exclaimed the commandant; and, extending his

cane before Charney, as if to create a barrier between the prisoner and

his idol, he renewed his orders to Ludovico, who, seizing the stem, was

about to uproot it from the earth.

The Count, startled into submission, stood like an image of despair.

Near the bottom of the stem, below the lowest branches, where the sap

had got power to circulate, a single flower, fresh and brilliant, had

just expanded! Already, all the others were drooping, withered, on their

stalks; but this single one retained its beauty, as yet uncrushed by

the rude hand of the jailer. Springing in the midst of a little tuft of

leaves, whose verdure threw out in contrast the vivid colours of its

petals, the flower seemed to turn imploringly towards its master. He even

fancied its last perfumes were exhaling towards him; and, as the tears

rose in his eyes, seemed to see the beloved object enlarge, disappear,

and at last bloom out anew. The human being and the flower, so strangely

attached to each other, were interchanging an eternal farewell!

If, at that moment, when so many human passions were called into action

by the existence of an humble vegetable, a stranger could have entered,

unprepared, the prison-court of Fenestrella, where the sky shed a sombre

and saddening reflection, the aspect of the officers of justice, invested

in their tri-coloured scarfs—of the commandant, issuing his ruthless

orders in a tone of authority—would naturally have seemed to announce

some frightful execution, of which Ludovico was the executioner, and

Charney the victim, whose sentence of death had just been recited to him.

And see, they come! strangers _are_ entering the court—two strangers, the

one, an aide-de-camp of General Menon, the other, a page of the Empress

Josephine. The dust with which their uniforms were covered attests with

what speed they have performed their journey to the fortress; yet a

minute more, and they had been too late!

At the noise produced by their arrival, Ludovico, raising his head,

relaxed his grasp of Picciola, and confronted Charney. Both the jailer

and the prisoner were pale as death!

The commandant had now received from the hands of the aide-de-camp an

order, the perusal of which seemed to strike him with astonishment; but

after taking a turn or two in the courtyard, to compare in his mind

the order of to-day with that of the day preceding, he assumed a more

courteous demeanour, and, approaching the Count de Charney, placed in his

hands the missive of General Menon. Trembling with emotion, the prisoner

read as follows:

“His majesty, the Emperor and King, deputes me, sir, to inform you that

he grants the petition forwarded to him by the prisoner Charney, now

under your custody in the fortress of Fenestrella, relative to a plant

growing among the stones of one of its pavements. Such as are likely to

be injurious to the flower must be instantly removed; for which purpose

you are requested to consult the wishes and convenience of your prisoner.”

“Long live the Emperor!” cried Ludovico.

“Long live the Emperor!” murmured another voice, which seemed to

issue from the adjoining wall; and while all this was proceeding,

the commandant stood leaning on his cane, by way of keeping himself

in countenance; the two officers of justice, completely puzzled, were

trying in vain to connect the new turn of affairs with the plot which

their imagination had created; while the aide-de-camp and page secretly

wondered what could be the motive of the haste which had been so urgently

recommended to them. The latter now addressed Charney, to inform him that

the letter contained a postscript in the handwriting of the Empress; and

the Count, turning over the page, read aloud as follows:

“I earnestly recommend Monsieur the Count de Charney to the

good offices of Captain Morand; to whom I shall feel personally

obliged for any acts of kindness by which he may be enabled to

alleviate the situation of his prisoner.

“JOSEPHINE.”

“Long live the Empress!” cried Ludovico. Charney said not a word. _His_

feelings could not be satisfied with less than raising to his lips the

precious signature of his benefactress. The letter, held for some minutes

in silence before his eyes, served to conceal his face from the curiosity

of the spectators.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

The commandant of Fenestrella was now unrelaxing in his courtesies

towards the _protégé_ of her majesty the Empress Queen. There was no

further mention of a transfer to the northern bastion; and Charney was

even authorized to reconstruct his fences for the defence of Picciola;

who, feeble and delicate after her recent transplantation, had more than

ever occasion for protection. So completely indeed had Captain Morand’s

irritation of feeling against the prisoner and plant subsided, that every

morning Ludovico appeared with a message of inquiry from the commandant

after the wants and wishes of the Count, and the health of his pretty

Picciola.

Profiting by these favourable dispositions, Charney obtained from

his munificence an allowance of pens, ink, and paper, wherewith to

commemorate the sequel of his studies and observations on vegetable

physiology; for the letter of the Governor of Turin did not go so far

as to cancel the confiscation which had taken place of his former

lucubrations. The two judiciary sbirri, after carrying off his cambric

archives, and submitting them to the most careful examination, admitted

their incompetency to discover a key to the cipher, and transmitted the

whole to the minister of police in Paris, that more able decipherers

might be employed to search out the root of the mystery.

[Illustration]

But Charney had now to deplore a far more important privation. The

commandant, resolved to visit upon Girardi, the only victim within his

reach, the reprimand originally addressed to him by General Menon, had

consigned the venerable Italian to a stronger part of the fortress,

secure from all communication with the exterior; and the Count could not

refrain from bitter self-reproaches, when he reflected upon the miserable

isolation of the poor old man.

The greater portion of the day his eyes remained mournfully fixed upon

the grating in the wall, the little window of which was now closed up.

In fancy he still beheld Girardi extending his arm through the bars,

and trying to bestow upon him a friendly pressure of the hand; nay, he

still seemed to see his precious memorial to the Emperor, fluttering

against the wall and gradually drawn up from his own hands to those of

Girardi—thence to proceed to the hands of Teresa and the Empress. The

very glance of pity and pardon cast down upon him by Girardi in his

moment of anguish seemed to shine ineffaceably on the spot; and often

did he hear again the cry of exultation which burst from the window on

the arrival of Picciola’s reprieve. That very sentence of pardon is

in fact the gift of Girardi and Girardi’s daughter: and though solely

serviceable to himself, has become the fatal origin of their separation

and the sorrows of the parent and his child.

Even the countenance of Teresa was restored, by the efforts of his

imagination, to the spot where alone it had been momentarily revealed to

his eyes, at the close of the uneasy dream which he now believed to have

foreshown the approaching perils of his plant. Inseparably united in his

mind with the Picciola of his dreams, it was always under _her_ form and

features that the living Teresa Girardi was revealed to him.

One day, as, with his eyes upraised towards the grating, the prisoner

stood indulging in these and similar illusions, the dim and dusty window

was flung open, and a female form appeared behind the grating. But the

new-comer was a swarthy, savage-looking woman, with rapacious eyes,

and an enormous goître, in whom the Count soon recognised the wife of

Ludovico.

From that moment Charney never cast his eyes towards the window. The

charm was broken.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

Relieved from all constraint, imbedded in new earth, and capaciously

framed in the wide pavement, Picciola seemed to rise triumphantly from

her tribulations. She had, however, survived her summer blossoms; with

the exception of that single flower, the last to open and the last to

fall.

Charney already foresaw important discoveries to be deduced from the

seed, which was swelling and ripening in the calyx. He promised himself

the triumph of the _Dies Seminalis_, or Feast of the Sowers. For space

was no longer wanting for his experiments: Picciola has more than enough

room for her own expansion. She has every facility to become a mother,

and shelter her uprising children under her branches.

While waiting this important event, the Count becomes eager to ascertain

the real name of the fair companion, to whom he is indebted for so many

happy hours.

“Shall I never be able,” thought Charney, “to bestow upon my foundling,

my adopted child, the name she inherits from science, in common with her

legitimate sisters of the plain or mountain?”

And at the first visit paid by the commandant to his charge, the

Count admitted his desire to procure an elementary botanical work.

Morand, unwilling either to refuse or to take upon himself the vast

responsibility of compliance, thought proper to signify the demand in

punctilious form to the governor of Piedmont. But from General Menon, the

_protégé_ of the Empress was now safe from a refusal; and a botanical

dictionary soon arrived at the fortress, accompanied by all the folios

treating of botany which could be obtained from the Royal Library of

Turin.

“I have the honour,” wrote General Menon, “to facilitate to the utmost

the wishes of the Sieur Charney; for her Majesty the Empress-Queen, a

proficient in botanical science (as in many others), will doubtless be

glad to learn the name of a plant in whose welfare she has deigned to

evince an interest.”

When Ludovico made his appearance with the piles of books, under the

enormous weight of which his back was breaking, Charney could not resist

a smile.

“How!” cried he, “all this heavy artillery, to compel a poor helpless

flower to give up her name?”

Nevertheless, it afforded him satisfaction to _look_ once more upon a

book. In turning over the leaves, his heart thrilled with pleasure, as in

former days, when the attainment of knowledge was his chief delight in

life. What months had now elapsed since printed characters were before

his eyes! Already a plan of sage and sober study was concocting in his

excited mind.

“If ever I am released from captivity,” thought he, “I will certainly

become a botanist. Instead of scholastic and pedantic controversies,

which serve only to bewilder the human intellect, I will devote myself

to a science where nature, ever varying, yet still the same, dispenses

immutable laws to her disciples.”

The books forwarded for the use of the Count de Charney consisted of

the _Species Plantarum_ of Linnæus; the _Institutiones rei Herbariæ_ of

Tournefort; the _Theatrum Botanicum_ of Bauhin; and the _Phytographia_,

_Dendrologia_, and _Agrostographia_ of Plukenet, Aldrovandus, and

Scheuchzer; besides half a hundred works of minor classicality, in the

French, English, and Italian languages.

[Illustration]

Though somewhat startled by so formidable an array of learning, the Count

was not discouraged; and, by way of preparation for the worst, opened

the thinnest volume of the collection, and began to examine the index in

search of the most euphonous titles afforded by botanic nomenclature. He

longed to appropriate to his purpose some of the softer saints of the

floral calendar; such as Alcea, Alisma, Andryala, Bromelia, Celosia,

Coronilla, Euphrasia, Helvelia, Passiflora, Primula, Santolina, or some

other equally soft to the lip and harmonious to the ear.

And, now, for the first time, he began to tremble, lest his pretty

favourite should inherit some quaint or harsh patronymic. A masculine

or neuter termination would put to flight all his poetical vagaries

concerning his gentle friend. What, for instance, would become of

his ethereal Picciola, if her earthly prototype were to be saluted

as _Rumex obtusifolius_, _Satyrium_, _Hyoscyamus_, _Gossypium_,

_Cynoglossum_, _Cucubalus_, _Cenchrus_, _Buxus_; or, worse still, and in

more vulgar phrase, as Old Man, Dogtooth, Houndstongue, Cuckoo-flower,

Devil-in-a-bush, Hen and Chickens, or Spiderwort! How should he support

such a disenchantment of his imagination! No! better not to risk the

vexation of such an ordeal.

Yet, in spite of himself, he found it impossible to resist the temptation

of opening every successive volume—led on from page to page by the

development of the mighty mysteries of nature, but irritated by the love

of system prevailing among the learned, by whom so charming a science has

been rendered the harshest, most technical, and most perplexed, of all

the branches of natural history.

[Illustration]

For a whole week he devoted himself to the analysis of his flower, with

a view to classification, but without success. In the chaos of so many

strange words, varying from system to system—bewildered by the vast

and ponderous synonymy, which, like the net of Vulcan, overspreads the

beauties of botany, overpowering them by its weight, he soon gave up

the attempt; having consulted each author in succession, for a clew,

wandering from classes to orders, from orders to tribes, from tribes

to families, from families to species, from species to individuals;

and losing all patience with the blind guides, ever at variance among

themselves with respect to the purpose and denomination of the parts of

organization in vegetable life.

At the close of his investigations, the poor little flower, the last

upon the tree, examined petal by petal, and to the very depth of her

calyx, suddenly fell off one day into the hand of the operator, bearing

with it Charney’s hopes of inquiry into the progress of the seed, the

reproduction of his favourite, the maternity of the lovely Picciola!

“She shall have no other title than PICCIOLA!” cried Charney. “Picciola,

the flower of the captive. What do I want to know more of her name or

nature? To what purpose this idle thirst after human knowledge?”

In a moment of petulance, Charney even threw down the vast heap of folios

which had served to perplex him; when, from one of the volumes, came

fluttering forth a slip of paper, on which had been recently inscribed,

in the handwriting of a woman, the following verse, purporting to be a

quotation from the Holy Scriptures:

“Hope, and bid thy neighbour hope: for, behold, I have not forsaken ye,

and a day of consolation is at hand.”

[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

Charney perused and re-perused a hundred times a sentence which he

could not but believe to have been especially addressed to himself. His

correspondent was evidently a woman; but it grieved him to reflect that

the only one to whom he was indebted for real acts of service, the only

woman who had ever devoted herself to his cause, was still so imperfectly

known to him, that he was ignorant of the very sound of her voice, and

by no means sure of recognising her person, should she present herself

before him.

But by what means had Teresa contrived to evade the vigilance of his

Argus in the transmission of her letter?

Poor girl! Afraid to compromise her father by the mere mention of his

name! Unhappy father! to whom he is unable to afford consolation by the

sight of the handwriting of his child!

Often, indeed, had Charney’s nights been rendered sleepless by the idea

of the solitary old man, to whom he had been the innocent cause of such

irreparable injury, when one night, as he was lying awake, absorbed in

these afflicting recollections, his ear was struck by an unaccustomed

sound in the chamber above his own, which had remained uninhabited during

the whole period of his confinement at Fenestrella.

[Illustration]

Next morning Ludovico entered his apartment, his countenance full of

meaning, which he vainly attempted to compose to its usual vacuity of

expression.

“What is the matter?” demanded the Count; “has anything unusual occurred

in the citadel?”

“Nothing particular, _Signor Conte_; nothing of any consequence, only we

have had a sudden influx of prisoners; and the chambers of the northern

and southern turrets being full, the commandant is under the necessity

of placing another state prisoner in this part of the fortress, who must

share with you the use of the courtyard. But this need be no hindrance

to your pursuits. We receive at Fenestrella only gentlemen of high

consideration—that is, I mean we have no thieves or robbers among our

prisoners. But stay, here _is_ the new-comer, waiting to pay you his

visit of inauguration.”

Charney half rose at this announcement, scarcely knowing whether to

grieve or rejoice at the intelligence; but, on turning to do the honours

to his unexpected guest, what was his amazement to behold the door open

for the admission of—Girardi!

After gazing upon each other for a moment in silence, as if still

doubtful of the reality of their good fortune, the hands of the two

prisoners were suddenly pressed together in mutual gratulations.

“Well and good,” cried Ludovico, with a cordial smile; “no need, I see,

of a master of the ceremonies between you; the acquaintance has been

quickly made;” and away he went, leaving them to the enjoyment of each

other’s society.

“To whom are we indebted, I wonder, for this happy meeting?” was

Charney’s first exclamation.

“To my daughter—doubtless to my daughter,” replied Girardi. “Every

consolation of my life reaches me through the hands of my Teresa.”

“Do you know this handwriting?” inquired Charney, drawing from his casket

the slip of paper he so dearly treasured.

“It is Teresa’s!” cried Girardi; “it is the writing of my child!

She has not neglected us; nor have her promises been tardy in their

accomplishment. But how did this letter reach your hands?”

The Count related all the circumstances, then carelessly put forth his

hand to receive back the slip of paper; but, perceiving that the poor old

man silently detained it, perusing it word by word, letter by letter, and

raising it a thousand times, with trembling hands, to his lips, he saw

that the pledge was lost to him for ever; and experienced a regret at the

loss, which appeared almost unbearable.

After the first moments passed in conjectures, concerning Teresa and the

spot where she was likely to have taken refuge, Girardi began to examine

the lodgings of his new friend; and gravely proceeded to decipher the

inscriptions on the wall. Two among them had been already modified; and

the old man could readily discern, in this recantation, the influence

exercised by Picciola over her votary. One of the maxims of Charney

ran as follows: “Mankind maintain, upon the surface of the earth, the

position they will one day hold below it—side by side, without a single

bond of union. Physically considered, the world is a mob, where millions

meet and jostle together: morally speaking, it is a solitary wilderness.”

[Illustration]

To this withering sentence, the hand of Girardi added, “_Unless to him

who has a friend_.” Then, turning to his young companion, the old man

extended his arms towards him, and a mutual embrace sealed between them a

compact of eternal friendship.