Next day, they dined together in the _camera_ of the Count—Charney seated

upon the bed, and his venerable guest upon the chair—the sculptured

table between them being covered with double rations, viz.: a fine

trout from the lake of Avigliano, crayfish from the Cenise, a bottle of

excellent Mondovi wine, and a piece of the celebrated Millesimo cheese,

known over Italy under the name of _rubiola_. The feast was a noble

one for a prison; but Girardi’s purse was richly replenished, and the

commandant willing to sanction every accommodation which Ludovico could

afford to the two prisoners, within the letter of his instructions from

headquarters.

Never had Charney more thoroughly enjoyed the pleasures of the table. The

happiest spirit of social intercourse was already established between

them. If exercise, and the waters of the Eurotas, imparted a zest to

the black broth of the Lacedæmonians, how much more the presence and

conversation of a friend to the flavour of the choice viands of Piedmont!

Their hearts expanded with the sense of enjoyment. Without scruple,

without preamble, but as if in fulfilment of the sacred engagements

conveyed in their promises of friendship, Charney began to relate the

presumptuous studies and idle vanities of his youth; while Girardi, by

way of encouragement to this candour, did not hesitate to avow the early

errors of his own.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

Girardi was a native of Turin; in which city his progenitors had

established a considerable manufactory of arms. From time immemorial,

Piedmont has afforded a medium for the transmission of opinions and

merchandise from Italy to France, and a medium for the transmission of

merchandise and opinions from France to Italy; some portion of each, of

course, being detained on the road. The breezes of France had breathed

on Girardi’s father, who was a philosopher, a reformer, a disciple of

Voltaire: the breezes of Italy upon his mother, who was a zealot to the

utmost extent of bigotry. The boy, loving and respecting both parents,

and listening to both with equal confidence, participating in both their

natures, became, of necessity, an amphibious moralist and politician.

A republican, as well as a devotee, he was incessantly projecting the

union of Liberty and Religion—a holy alliance which he purposed to

accomplish after a manner of his own. For Girardi was but twenty; and at

that period, people were young at twenty years of age.

The enthusiastic youth was soon compelled to give pledges on both sides.

The Piedmontese nobility retained certain nobiliary privileges—such as

an exclusive right to appear in a box at the theatre, or to dance at

a public ball; and dancing was held to be an aristocratic exercise,

in which the middle classes must content themselves with the part of

spectators.

[Illustration]

At the head of a band of young people of his own age, Giacomo Girardi

chose, however, one day to infringe the national rule established by his

betters; and at a public ball, headed a quadrille of untitled dancers, in

the very face of the aristocratic portion of the assembly. The patrician

dancers, indignant at the innovation, would fain have put a stop to the

attempt; but vociferous cries of “_Amusement for all alike—dancing for

high and low_,” were raised by the plebeians; and to this outbreak of

sedition succeeded other cries of a liberal nature. In the tumult that

ensued, twenty challenges were given and refused, not from cowardice, but

pride; and the imprudent Giacomo, carried away by the impetuosity of his

age and character, ended with inflicting a blow upon the proudest and

most insolent of his adversaries.

The unpremeditated insult proved of serious moment. The influential

family of San Marsano swore that it should not pass unpunished; the

knights of St. Maurice, of the Annunciation, all the chivalry and

nobility of the country (which an infringement of privilege is sure to

render unanimous), affected to resent the offence, both individually and

collectively. At his father’s suggestion, the young man took refuge with

one of his relations, vicar of a small village in the principality of

Masserano, in the environs of Bielle, and, in consequence of his flight,

Girardi was condemned, as contumacious, to five years’ banishment from

Turin.

The dignity to which the whole business was rashly elevated by all this

notoriety, investing a boyish affray with the importance of a conspiracy,

imparted considerable consequence to Giacomo Girardi in the eyes of his

fellow-countrymen. Some saluted him as champion of the liberties of the

people; others as one of those dangerous innovators who still dreamed of

restoring the independence of Piedmont; but while, at the court of Turin,

the insolent chastiser of nobility was denounced as a leading member of

the democratic faction, the poor little partisan was quietly ministering

to the performance of a village mass, after the fervent fulfilment of his

own religious duties!

This stormy commencement of a life which had seemed predestined to peace

and tranquillity, exercised a powerful influence over the fortunes of

Giacomo Girardi. In his old age, he was fated to pay a severe penalty for

the follies of his boyhood, for, upon his arrest on the groundless charge

of having attempted the life of the First Consul, his accusers did not

fail to recur to his early disorders, as an evidence of his dangerous

tendency as a disturber of the public peace. But from the moment of

quitting Turin, and during the whole period of his exile, Giacomo,

indifferent to the love of equality instilled into him by his father,

resigned himself to the influence of the religious principles derived

from his mother. He even carried them to excess; and his relative, the

worthy priest, whose faith was sincere, but whose capacity narrow and

uncultivated, instead of checking the exalted fervour of the young

enthusiast, excited it to the utmost, in the hope that the loveliness

of Christian humility would impose a check upon the impetuosity of his

character. But in the sequel, the worthy vicar repented the rashness of

his calculations: for Giacomo would hear of nothing now but embracing

the sacerdotal profession. The wild, hot-headed young man insisted on

becoming a priest of the altar.

In the hope of arresting a measure which would deprive them of their

only son, his father and mother got him recalled home; and by the utmost

eloquence of parental tenderness, prevailed upon him to resign his

projects, and acquiesce in their own. In a few months, Giacomo Girardi

was married to a beautiful girl, selected for him by his family. But,

to the great astonishment of his friends, the young fanatic not only

persisted in regarding his lovely bride as an adopted sister, but

exercised over her mind so strong an influence as to persuade her to

retire into a convent, while _he_ returned to his pious calling in the

neighbourhood of Bielle.

[Illustration]

At a short distance from his favourite village, rose the last branch of

the Pennine Alps—a vast and towering chain of mountains; the highest peak

of which, Monte Mucrone, overshadowed a gloomy little valley—shaggy with

overhanging rocks, obscured by mists, bordered by awful precipices, and

appearing at a distance to imbody all the horrors with which Dante and

Virgil have invested the entrance to the infernal regions. But on drawing

nearer to the defile, the impending rocks were found to be clefted with

verdure; the precipices to be relieved by gentle slopes, where flowering

shrubs afforded a beautiful ladder of vegetation, interspersed with

natural bowers and thickets; while the mists, varying in hue according

to the reflections of the sun, after becoming white, pink, or violet,

evaporated altogether under the influence of the noontide radiance. It

was then that, deep in the lovely valley, a lake of about five hundred

feet in length became apparent, alimented by crystal springs, and giving

rise to the little river called the Oroppa, which at some distance

farther encircled and formed into an island one of the verdant hillocks

of the valley, on which the piety of the inhabitants has erected,

at great cost, and consecrated to the Holy Virgin, one of the most

remarkable churches in the country. If the legend is to be believed,

St. Eusebius himself, on his return from a pilgrimage to the Holy Land,

deposited there a wooden statue of the Virgin, carved by a hand no less

holy than that of St. Luke the Evangelist, which he was desirous of

securing from the profanations of the Arians.

[Illustration]

In this sequestered vale, on the banks of this lonely lake, surrounded by

the shrubby rocks and gentle precipices—in this church, and at the foot

of the miraculous statue, did Giacomo Girardi dream away five years of

his young existence—rejecting the adoration of his lovely bride for that

of the wooden lady of Oroppa!

Incapable of distinguishing between credulity and faith, unaware that

superstition may degenerate into idolatry, that all extremes are

unacceptable to God, he little suspected that it was not the Mary of

Scripture—the mother of the Redeemer—to whom he dedicated his prayers;

but a divinity of his own—the tutelary genius of the place. Before the

miraculous image, he passed his nights and days, in prayers and tears,

praying for a higher spiritualization, and weeping over imaginary faults.

His heart was that of a child—his mind that of a fanatic. In vain did

the vicar, his worthy relative, labour to repress this unnatural

fervour, and bring him back to reason. In vain, to distract his thoughts

from one fixed and dangerous idea, did he suggest a pilgrimage to other

spots of peculiar sanctity, dedicated to the worship of the Virgin.

Giacomo would not hear of our Lady of Loretto, or the Saint Mary of

Bologna or of Milan. He was infatuated by the pretended virtue of a

material image, a piece of black and worm-eaten wood; and renounced all

homage to its celestial prototype.

The sentiments of the enthusiast, if they eventually lost in depth,

gained only in extent. The Virgin of Oroppa was surrounded by a whole

court of saints and saintesses—and to each of these, the infatuated

Giacomo assigned some peculiar duty of intercession. From one, he

implored the dispersion of the clouds charged with hail-showers, which

from the heights of Monte Mucrone, sometimes rattled down upon his

beloved valley. To another, he assigned the task of comforting his

mother for his absence, and sustaining the spiritual weakness of his

young wife. A third, he implored to watch over him in sleep—a fourth,

to defend him against the temptations of Satan. His devotion, by this

means, degenerated into an impure polytheism, and Mount Oroppa into a new

Olympus, where every divinity but the one Almighty GOD was honoured with

a shrine.

Subjecting himself to the severest discipline, the most painful

privations, he continued to macerate himself, to fast, to remain whole

days without nourishment; and the exhaustion that ensued was qualified

with the name of divine ecstasy! He saw visions, he heard revelations.

After the delusions of the Quietists, he fancied that by subjugating his

physical nature, he could develop and render visible his soul. But, while

resigning himself to this chimera, and holding imaginary discourse with

his immaterial nature, Girardi’s health gave way, and his reason became

disordered.

One day, a voice seemed to address him from on high, commanding him to

go and convert the heretic Waldenses, remnants of which persecuted sect

still exist in the Valais. He accordingly set off, traversed the country

adjoining the river Sesia, attained the summit of the Alps, near Monte

Rosa, and there, suddenly arrested in his course by the snow of an early

winter, found himself under the necessity of passing several months in a

châlet.

[Illustration]

This place of general refuge, designated, in the language of the

country, _las strablas_, or the stables, consisted in a vast shed,

five hundred feet square, open towards the south, but carefully closed

in all other directions, by strong pine logs, filled in with moss and

lichens, cemented into a mass by resinous gums. Here, in inclement

weather, men, women, children, flocks, and herds, united together,

as in a common habitation, under the control of the oldest member of

the tribe. A large hearth, constantly supplied with fuel, sparkled

in the centre of the dwelling; over which was suspended an enormous

boiler, in which, alternately or together, the food of the community

was prepared—consisting of dried vegetables, pork, mutton, quarters of

chamois, or cutlets of the flesh of the marmot; eaten afterwards at a

general meal, with bread made of chestnut-meal, and a fermented liquor

made from cranberries and whortleberries.

Occupations were not wanting in the châlet. The children and flocks were

to be attended to; the winter cheeses to be made; the spinning, which

was incessantly at work; and instruments of husbandry, in progress of

manufacture, to force into cultivation, during the short summer season,

the shallow soil of the adjacent rocks. Garments of sheep-skin were also

manufactured; baskets of the bark of trees; and a variety of elegant

trifles, carved in sycamore, or larchwood, for sale in the nearest

towns. The population of the châlet, cheerful and laborious, suffered

not an hour to pass unimproved; and songs and laughter intermingled with

the strokes of the axe, and busy murmur of the wheel. Labour scarcely

appeared a task; and study and prayer were accounted the duty and

recreation of the day. Harmonious and well-practised voices united in

chorus for the daily execution of pious canticles: the elder shepherds

instructed the young in reading and arithmetic—nay, even in music, and a

smattering of Latin; for the civilization of the Higher Alps, like its

vegetation, seems to be preserved under the snow; and it is no uncommon

thing to see, at the return of spring, school-masters and minstrels

descend from the châlets, to diffuse knowledge and hilarity among the

agricultural villages of the plain.

The worthy hosts of Giacomo proved to be Waldenses. The opportunity was

an auspicious one for the young apostle; but, scarcely had he let fall a

word of the purport of his mission, when the octogenarian chief of the

community, high in the renown, secured, among these humble peasants, by a

life of industry and virtue, cut short his expectations.

“Our fathers,” said he to the young man, “endured exile, persecutions,

death—rather than subscribe to the image-worship practised among your

people. Hope not, therefore, that your feeble powers will effect what

centuries of persecution failed to accomplish. Stranger! you have

found shelter under our roof, and therein, for your own safety, must

abide. Pray, therefore, to God, according to the dictation of your own

conscience, as we do according to ours; but be advised by the experience

of a gray-beard, and take part in the labours proceeding around you; or,

in this solitude, remote from the rumours and excitements of social life,

want of occupation will destroy you. Be our companion, our brother, so

long as the winter snows weigh upon your existence and our own; and,

at the return of spring, leave us, unquestioned, as you came; without

so much as bestowing your benediction on our hearth—nay, without even

turning back upon your path, to salute, by a farewell gesture, those by

whose fire you have been warmed, and at whose frugal board, nourished.

For, having shared their industry, you will owe them nothing. The fruit

of your own labour will have maintained you; and, should any debt be

still owing, the God of mercy will repay us a thousand-fold for our

hospitality to the son of the stranger.”

Forced to submit to a proposition so reasonable, Giacomo remained five

months an inmate of the châlet, and an eye-witness of the virtuous

career of its inhabitants. Night and morning, he heard their prayers and

thanksgivings offered up to the throne of grace—to the throne of the one

omnipresent GOD; and his mind, no longer excited by the objects which had

wrought its exaltation, became gradually composed to a reasonable frame.

When the prison of ice, constructed for him by nature, ceased to hold him

captive, and the sun, shining out with the return of spring, developed

before his eyes all the beauty and majesty of the mountain-scenery by

which he was surrounded, the idea of the Almighty Lord of the universe

seemed to manifest itself powerfully to his mind, and resume its fitting

influence on his heart.

The geniality of the weather, reviving all nature around him, with her

swarming myriads of birds and bees hovering over the new-born flowers,

starting anew to life from beneath their winter mantle of snow, awoke

in his bosom correspondent transports of love and joy. It were vain to

dilate on the expansion of human feeling which gradually enlarged his

perceptions. The good old chief had begun to entertain an affection for

him; and, though unlearned in pedantic lore, had stored up, in the course

of his long existence, an infinity of facts and observations, which,

joined to those inherited from the lessons of his fathers, inspired him

with knowledge of the Creator through the wisdom of his works. In a

word, the presumptuous youth, who had entered that humble asylum for

the purpose of converting its people to his opinions, eventually quitted

it, _himself_ converted to their own!—nay, the industrious habits he had

acquired, and the examples of domestic happiness he had witnessed, had

brought him to a due sense of his error in neglecting the happiness and

duties with which Providence had endowed his existence.

[Illustration]

Giacomo’s first visit after quitting Monte Rosa, was to the convent in

which his wife was immured. A whole romance might be developed in the

history of his wooing, and the difficulties with which his courtship was

beset. Suffice it, that after many months devoted to the obliteration of

the lessons he had himself inculcated, Girardi, aided by the influence of

his parents, succeeded in removing his wife from the cloistral seclusion

to which he had devoted her; and became, in the sequel, the happiest of

husbands and of fathers.

The errors of his youth were now redeemed by years of wisdom and of

virtue. Established in his native city of Turin, in the enjoyment of

a handsome fortune, the thriving speculations in which he was engaged

might have rendered it colossal, but for the systematic benevolence

which rendered the opulence of Girardi a second providence to the poor.

To do good was the _occupation_ of his life; his favourite recreation

was the study of animated nature. Girardi became a proficient in natural

history; and as GOD is greatest in the least of his works, entomology

chiefly engaged his attention. It was this interest in the organization

and habits of insects, which had obtained for him from Ludovico, in the

earlier stages of his imprisonment, the appellation of “The Fly-catcher.”

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

The two prisoners had no longer any secrets from each other. After

glancing rapidly over the history of their several lives, they returned

to the various incidents of each, and the emotions to which they had

given rise. They sometimes spoke of Teresa; but at the very mention of

her name, a vivid blush overspread the face of Charney, and the old man

himself grew grave and sad. Any allusion to the absent angel was sure to

be followed by an interval of mournful silence.

Their discourse usually turned upon the discussion of some point of

morality; or comments upon the eccentricities of human nature. Girardi’s

philosophy, mild and benevolent, invested the happiness of man in the

love of his fellow-creatures; nor could Charney, though half converted

to his opinions, understand by what means this spirit of tenderness and

indulgence could survive the injuries which the philosopher had endured

from mankind.

“Surely,” said he, “you must have bestowed your malediction on those

who, after basely calumniating you, tore you from the bosom of domestic

happiness—from the arms of—your daughter?”

“The offence of a few,” replied Girardi, “was not to subvert my

principles of action towards the whole. Even those few, blinded by

political fanaticism, fancied they were fulfilling a duty. Trust me,

my young friend, it is indispensable to survey even the injuries we

receive through a medium of pardon and pity. Which of us has not required

forgiveness for faults? Which of us has not, in his turn, mistaken error

for the truth? St. John bequeathed to us the blessed axiom that GOD

IS LOVE! True and beautiful proposition!—since by love alone the soul

re-elevates itself to its celestial source, and finds courage for the

endurance of misfortune! Had I entered into captivity with a particle

of hatred in my soul against my fellow-creatures, I should have expired

in my embittered loneliness. But Heaven be praised, I have never been

the prey of a single painful reflection. The recollection of my good and

faithful friends, whose hearts I knew were suffering with every suffering

of my own, served to stimulate my affection towards mankind; and the only

unlucky moment of my captivity was that in which I was debarred the sight

of a fellow-creature.”

“How!” cried Charney, “were you ever subjected to such a deprivation?”

“At my first arrest,” resumed Girardi, “I was transported to a dungeon

in the citadel of Turin, so framed as to render communication impossible

even with my jailer. My food was conveyed to me by a turning box inserted

in the wall; and during a whole month not the slightest sound interrupted

the stillness of my solitude. It needs to have undergone all I then

experienced, fully to comprehend the fallacy of that savage philosophy

which denied society to be the natural condition of the human species.

The wretch condemned to isolation from his kind is a wretch indeed! To

hear no human voice—to meet no human eye—to be denied the pressure of a

human hand—to find only cold and inanimate objects on which to rest one’s

brow—one’s breast—one’s heart, is a privation to which the strongest

might fall a victim! The month I thus endured weighed like years upon

my nature; and when, every second day, I discerned the footsteps of my

jailer in the corridor, coming to renew my provisions, the mere sound

caused my heart to leap within me. While the box was turning round, I

used to strain my eyes in hopes to catch, at the crevice, the slightest

glimpse of his face, his hand, his very dress; and my disappointment

drove me to despair. Could I have discerned a human face, even bearing

the characters of cruelty or wickedness, I should have thought it full of

beauty; and had the man extended his arms towards me in kindness, have

blessed him for the concession! But the sight of a human face was denied

me till the day of my translation to Fenestrella; and my only resource

consisted in feeding the reptiles which shared my captivity, and in

meditating upon my absent child!”

[Illustration]

Charney started at the allusion; but his venerable companion was himself

too much distressed to notice the emotion of his young friend.

“At length,” said he, after a long pause, which served to restore him to

his usual serenity, “a favourable change befel me even in my dungeon. I

discovered, by means of a straggling ray of light, a crevice produced

by the insertion of an iron cross by way of support into the walls

of my dungeon: which, though it enabled me to obtain only an oblique

glimpse of the opposite wall, became a source of exquisite enjoyment.

My cell happened to be situated under the keep of the citadel; and one

blessed day, I noticed for the first time the shadow of a man distinctly

reflected upon the wall. A sentinel had doubtless been posted on the

platform over my head; for the shadow went and came, and I could

distinguish the form of the man’s uniform, the epaulet, the knapsack, the

point of his bayonet—the very vacillation of his feather!

“Till evening extinguished my resource, I remained at my post; and

how shall I describe the thrill of joy with which I acknowledged so

unexpected a consolation! I was no longer alone; I had once more a living

companion. Next day and the days succeeding, the shadow of another

soldier appeared; the sentinels were ever changing, but my enjoyment was

the same. It was always a man—always a fellow-creature I knew to be near

me—a living, breathing fellow-creature, whose movements I could watch,

and whose dispositions conjecture. When the moment came for relieving

guard, I welcomed the new-comer, and bade good-by to his predecessor.

I knew the corporal by sight; I could recognise the different profiles

of the men; nay (dare I avow such a weakness!), some among them were

objects of my predilection. The attitude of their persons, or comparative

vivacity of their movements, became so many indications of character,

from which their age and sentiments might be inferred. One paced gaily

along, turning lightly on his heel, balancing his musket in sport,

or waving his head in cadence to the air he was whistling; _he_ was

doubtless young and gay, cheered by visions of happiness and love.

Another paced along, with his brow inclining, pausing often, and leaning

with his arms crossed upon his musket, meditating mournfully, perhaps,

upon his distant village, his absent mother, his childhood’s friends.

He passed his hand rapidly over his eyes—perhaps to dash away the tears

gathered by these tender retrospections!

[Illustration]

“For many of these shadows I felt a lively interest, an inexplicable

compassion; and the balm thus called into existence within my bosom shed

its soothing influence over my fate. Trust me, my good young friend,

the truest happiness is that we derive from our sympathy with our

fellow-creatures.”

“Why did I not become earlier acquainted with you, excellent man?” cried

Charney, deeply affected. “How different, then, had been the tenor of

my life! But what right have I to complain? Have I not found in this

desolate spot all that was denied me amid the splendour of the world?—a

devoted heart—a noble soul—an anchor of strength—virtue and truth—Girardi

and Picciola?”

For among all these effusions of the heart, Picciola was not forgotten.

The two friends had constructed a more capacious seat beside her; where,

side by side, and facing the lovely plant, they passed hour after hour

together, all three in earnest conversation. Charney had given to this

new seat the name of “The Bench of Conference.”

There did the simple-minded Girardi aspire for once to eloquence: for

without eloquence in the expositor, no conviction. Nor were the eloquence

or conviction wanting.

The bench had become the rostrum of a professor; a professor, though less

learned than his scholar, infinitely wiser and more enlightened. The

professor is Giacomo Girardi, the pupil the Count de Charney, and the

book in process of exposition—Picciola!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

As autumn approached, Charney could not forbear expressing to his friend,

as they sat together on the Bench of Conference, his regret at losing all

hopes of Picciola’s second flowering, and his lamentations over her last

blossom.

Girardi immediately attempted to supply the loss by a dissertation on

the fructification of plants, and the evidence thereby afforded of the

intervention of an all-wise Providence.

Girardi first alluded to the winged form of the seeds of certain plants,

whose foliage, large and complicated, would oppose their dispersion, but

for the feathery tuft attached to each, which causes them to float in the

atmosphere; and described the elastic pods in which others are enclosed,

which, opening by a sudden spring, at the moment of maturity, discharge

the seed to a distance. “These wings, these springs,” observed the old

man, “are hands and feet bestowed upon them by the Almighty, that they

may reach their destined place, and germinate in the sunshine. What human

eye, for instance,” said he, “is able to follow, in their aërial flight,

the membranous seeds of the elm, the maple, the pine, the ash—circling in

the atmosphere amid volumes of other seeds, rising by their own buoyancy,

and apparently flying in search of the birds, of which they are to form

the nourishment?”

The old man next proceeded to explain the phenomena of aquatic plants;

how the seeds of those destined for the adornment of brooks, or the banks

of lakes or ponds, are endowed with a form enabling them to float upon

the water, so as to deposit themselves in various parts of the beach, or

cross from one bank to another; while such as are intended to take root

in the bed of the river fall at once by their own weight to the bottom,

and give birth to reeds and rushes, or those beautiful water-lilies,

whose roots are in the mud beneath, while their large green shining

leaves, and snow-white blossoms, float in pride and glory upon the bosom

of the waters. The vallisneria was not forgotten; the male and female

plants of which being disunited, the latter uncoils her long spiral

peduncle, to raise her flower above the surface of the stream, while the

male, unpossessed of a similar faculty, breaks its fragile flower-stalk,

and rises spontaneously to the surface, to accomplish the act of

fecundation.

“How is it,” cried Charney, “that men remain insensible to the existence

of these wondrous prodigies of nature?”

And the old man rejoiced at the exclamation, as a proof that his lessons

were not shed upon a barren and ungrateful soil.

“Tell me,” demanded the Count, “has the insect creation, to which your

studies have been peculiarly addressed, furnished you with facts as

curious as those for which I am indebted to my Picciola?”

“_So_ curious,” replied Girardi, “that you will not fully appreciate even

the marvels of Picciola till you have become acquainted with the hosts

of animated beings which hover over her verdant branches. You will then

learn to admire the secret laws which connect the plant with the insect,

the insect with the plant; and perceive that ‘order is Heaven’s first

law,’ and that one vast intelligence influences the whole creation.”

[Illustration]

Girardi was proceeding to enlarge upon the harmony of the universe,

when, pausing suddenly, he pointed out to his companion a brilliant and

beautiful butterfly, poised on one of the twigs of his plant, with a

peculiar quivering of the wings. “See!” cried he, “Picciola hastens to

expound my theory! An engagement has just been contracted between her and

yonder insect, which is now consigning its posterity to her guardianship.”

And when the butterfly flew away, Charney verified the assertion by

examining a little group of eggs, attached by a viscous substance to the

bark.

“Do you imagine,” inquired Girardi, “that it is by chance the butterfly

has proceeded hither, to intrust to Picciola this precious deposit? On

the contrary, Nature has assigned to every plant analogies with certain

insects. Every plant has its insect to lodge, its insect to feed.

Admire the long chain of connexion between them! This butterfly, when

a caterpillar, was nourished on the substance of a plant of the same

species as Picciola; and after undergoing its appointed transformations,

and becoming a butterfly, it fluttered faithless from flower to flower,

sipping the sweets of a thousand different nectaries. But no sooner

did the moment of maturity arrive for a creature that never beheld its

mother, and will never behold its children (for its task fulfilled, it

is now about to die), than, by an instinct surer than the best lessons

of experience, it flew hither to deposit its progeny on a plant similar

to that by which, under a different form and in a different season, it

was fed and protected. Instinctively conscious that little caterpillars

will emerge from its eggs, it forgets, for their sake, the habits it has

acquired as a butterfly!

“Who taught her all this? Who endowed her with memory, powers of

reasoning, and recognising the peculiarities of a vegetable, whose

present foliage bears no resemblance to that which it bore during the

spring? The most experienced botanist is often mistaken—the insect,

never!”

Charney involuntarily testified his surprise.

“You have still more to learn,” interrupted Girardi. “Examine the branch

selected by the insect. It is one of the largest and strongest on the

tree; not one of the new shoots, likely to be decayed by frost during the

winter, or broken by the wind. All this has been foreseen by the insect.

Whence did it derive such prescience?”

“Do you not in some degree deceive yourself, my dear friend?” demanded

Charney, unwilling to avow how much he was confounded by these

discoveries.

“Peace, sceptic, peace!” replied the old man, with an accusing smile.

“You will admit, at least, that seeing is believing! Picciola has now

_her_ part to play. The foresight of the insect is not greater than that

with which Nature endows the plant towards the legacy bequeathed by the

butterfly; at the return of spring we will verify the prodigy together.

The moment the plant puts forth its leaves, the tiny eggs will break, and

emit the larvæ they contain: a law of harmony regulates the vegetation

of the plant in common with the vitality of the insect. Were the larvæ

to appear first, there would be no food for them; were the leaves to

precede them, they would have acquired too firm a consistency for their

feeble powers. But Nature, provident over all, causes both plant and

insect to develop themselves at the same moment, to grow together, and

together attain their maturity; so that the wings and flowers of each are

simultaneous in their display of beauty.”

“Another lesson derived from my gentle Picciola!” murmured the astonished

Charney; and conviction entered into his soul.

Thus passed the days of the captives, in mutual solace and instruction;

and when, every evening, the hour arrived for retreating singly into the

camera of each, to wait the hour of rest, the same object unconsciously

occupied their meditations; for Charney thought of Teresa, and Girardi

of his daughter, exhausting their minds in conjecture as to her present

destiny.

The young girl herself, meanwhile, was not inactive on their behalf. Her

first impulse had been to follow the Emperor to Milan; where Teresa soon

discovered that it is as difficult to penetrate through the antechamber

of royalty as through the ranks of an army. The friends of Girardi,

however, roused by her efforts, renewed their applications, and having

undertaken to procure, at no remote period, the liberation of the

captive, his daughter, somewhat reassured, returned to Turin, where an

asylum was offered her in the house of a near relation.

The husband of this relative happened to be the librarian of the city;

and to him did Menon address himself, to select the botanical works

destined for the use of the prisoner of Fenestrella. It was no difficult

matter for Teresa to infer from the nature of the study to whom these

books were destined; and she accordingly managed to slip into one of

the volumes the mysterious despatch, which, even if discovered by the

commandant, was not of a nature to compromise either her relation or the

_protégé_ in whose behalf she had already ventured so largely. She was

still ignorant that her father and Charney no longer resided in each

other’s neighbourhood; and when the news of their separation was brought

back by the messenger employed to convey the books to Fenestrella, it

became her first object to accomplish the reunion of the two captives.

After addressing letter after letter on the subject to the governor of

Piedmont, she continued to interest in her behalf some of the chief

inhabitants of Turin, and, through them, the wife of Menon, till the

general, having strong motives for desiring to conciliate his influential

petitioners, ended by granting the prayer of Teresa Girardi. And when,

under the auspices of Madame Menon, she came to offer her grateful thanks

to the general, the veteran, touched by the devotedness of her filial

tenderness, laying aside for a moment the harshness of his nature, took

the young girl kindly by the arm, as he addressed her.

[Illustration]

“You must come and visit my wife from time to time,” said he. “In about a

month’s time she may have good news to tell you.”

And Teresa, nothing doubting that the good news would consist in an

order for her readmission into the fortress of Fenestrella, to pass a

portion of every day with her father, threw herself at the feet of the

general with a countenance bright with joy, loading him with grateful

acknowledgments.

While all this was proceeding undreamed of by the two captives, Charney

and Girardi sat enjoying on their bench a glorious October sunshine,

restoring, or rather forestalling around them, the warmth and promise of

spring. Both were pensive and silent, leaning severally on the opposite

arms which closed in the rustic seat. They might have passed for being

estranged or indifferent to each other, but for the wistful looks cast

from time to time by Charney upon his companion, who was absorbed in a

profound reverie. It was not often that the countenance of Girardi was

overshadowed by sadness—no wonder, therefore, that the Count should

mistake the motives of his depression.

“Yes!” cried he, replying, as he fancied, to the looks of his friend;

“captivity is, indeed, a purgatory! To be imprisoned for an imaginary

offence—to live apart from all we love.”

But ere he could proceed, Girardi, raising his head, gazed with surprise

upon the Count. “True, my dear friend!” he replied; “separation is one

of the severest trials of human fortitude!”

“_I_ your friend!” interrupted Charney, with bitterness. “Have you the

charity to bestow such a name upon _me_—upon me, who am the cause of your

being parted from her? for it is of your daughter you are thinking! Deny

it not! Teresa is the object of these mournful meditations; and, at such

a moment, how odious must I be in your sight!”

“Believe me, you are mistaken in your conjectures,” mildly interrupted

the venerable man. “Never was the image of my daughter invested with such

consolatory associations as to-day. For Teresa has written to me. I have

received a letter from my child.”

“Written to you—you have a letter from her—they have suffered it to reach

your hands!” cried Charney, insensibly drawing nearer to his companion.

Then checking his exultation, he added, “But you have, doubtless, learned

some afflicting tidings?”

“Far from it, I assure you.”

“Wherefore, then, this depression?”

“Alas! my dear friend, such is the frailty of human nature; such is

the mingled yarn of human destiny! A regret is sure to embitter our

sweetest hopes. The happiness of this life casts its shadow before, and

it is by the shadow that our attention is first attracted. You spoke of

separation from those we love. Here is my letter! read it, and learn what

considerations depress my spirits while seated by your side.”

Charney took the letter, and for some moments held it unopened in his

hand; his eyes fixed on the countenance of Girardi, he seemed desirous of

reading _there_ the intelligence it contained. On examining the address

he recognised with emotion the handwriting of his precious billet; and at

length unfolding the paper, attempted to read aloud the contents. But his

voice faltered—the words expired upon his lips; and stopping short, he

concluded the letter almost inaudibly to himself.

“Dearest father,” wrote Teresa, “bestow a thousand kisses upon the paper

you hold in your hands; for a thousand and a thousand have I impressed

upon it, as harvest for your venerated lips!”

“What joy for us both, this renewal of correspondence! It is to General

Menon we are indebted for the concession; he it is who has put an end

to a silence which, even more than distance, seemed to keep us asunder.

Blessings be upon him! _Now_, dear father, our thoughts, at least, may

fly towards each other. _I_ shall communicate my hopes to sustain your

courage; _you_, your griefs, in weeping over which I shall fancy I am

weeping in your presence! But if a greater happiness, dearest father,

were in reserve for us! For a moment, I beseech you, lay aside my letter,

and summon your strength to hear the sudden joy I am about to excite

in your bosom. Father! if I were once more permitted to be with you!

to approach you—to listen to your instruction—to surround you with my

attentions! Throughout the two years in which we enjoyed this alleviation

of our affliction, captivity seemed to sit lightly on your spirits; and I

entertain the hope—yes, the earnest, earnest hope, that the favour will

be again vouchsafed me—that I shall be once more permitted to enter your

prison!”

“Teresa about to visit you! here in the fortress!” cried Charney, wild

with joy.

“Read on!” replied the old man, in a melancholy tone—“read on!”

“I shall be once more permitted to enter your prison,” resumed Charney,

repeating the last sentence. “Are you not happy in such a prospect?

Are you not overjoyed?” continued Teresa. “Pause a moment, to consider

the good tidings I have thus announced! Do not hurry on towards the

conclusion of my letter. Violent emotions are sometimes dangerous. Have

I not already said enough? Were an angel to descend from heaven, charged

with the accomplishment of our wishes, you would not presume to require

more; but I, your child, might venture, ere he reascended to his native

skies, _I_ might be tempted to implore your liberation from captivity.

At _your_ age, father, it is a cruel thing to be denied the sight of your

native country. The banks of our beloved Doria are so beautiful; and

in our gardens on the Collina, the trees planted by my poor mother and

brother have acquired surprising growth during your absence. There, more

than on any other spot, survives the precious memory of those we have

lost.

“Then, father, there are your friends—the friends who have supported,

by their generous efforts, my applications to government. I am sure you

regret your absence from them; I am sure you would delight in seeing them

again. Oh! father, father! the pen seems to burn in my hand! My secret

is about to escape me! It has, probably, already escaped me! You have,

doubtless, summoned all your courage to learn definitively that, in a

few days, I am about to rejoin you, _not_ to lend my aid in softening

your captivity, but to announce its termination; _not_ to be with you at

stated hours, and within the walls of a prison; but to carry you away

with me in triumph from Fenestrella—free, proud—ay, proud—for you have

now a right to resume your pride. Your faithful friends, Cotenna and

Delarue, did not rest till they obtained, _not_ your pardon, but your

justification. Yes, your innocence is fully recognised by the imperial

government.

“Farewell, dearest and best of fathers. How I love you! how happy do I

feel at this moment! and how much happier shall I be when again folded in

your arms! Your own

“TERESA.”

The letter did not contain a single word in reference to Charney.

That word—that hoped-for word—how eagerly did he seek for it in every

page and line—how eagerly, and how vainly! Yet, notwithstanding his

disappointment, it was a cry of joy that burst from the lips of the

Count, when he concluded the letter.

“You will soon be free!” cried he; “soon able to rest under the shadow of

green trees, and behold the rising of the sun!”

“Yes!” replied the old man. “But I am also about to _leave you_! Such is

the shadow which precedes my happiness to-day, to prevent my joy from

falling into excess.”

“Think not of _me_, I beseech you!” cried Charney; proving, by his

generous transports, and forgetfulness of self, how truly he deserved the

friendship of which he was the object. “At last, you will be restored to

her arms! At last, she will cease to suffer from the consequence of my

rashness! _You_ will be happy, and I no longer oppressed by the heaviness

of remorse. During the last few hours that remain for us to be together,

we may at least talk of her unreservedly.”

And, as he uttered these last incoherent words, the Count de Charney

threw himself into the arms of his venerable friend.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

The knowledge of their approaching separation seemed only to augment the

tender affection existing between the two friends. Seldom an hour apart,

both seemed eager to continue till the last moment their conferences on

the bench of the little court.

There was a solemn subject, to which Girardi often endeavoured to lead

the way, but Charney invariably evaded the discussion. The old man was,

however, too deeply interested in sounding the opinions of the Count to

be easily discouraged, and one day an occasion unexpectedly presented

itself for the accomplishment of his wishes.

“How unaccountable the chance,” cried Charney, after a short silence,

“which united us in this place; naturally divided as we are by difference

of birth-place, of languages, of faith, of prejudices! Yet, in spite of

all these obstacles, we have met at Fenestrella, to unite in the same

religious principles, the same adoration of the one supreme Being.”

“On that point, give me leave to differ with you,” said Girardi, with a

smile. “To lose sight of, is not to deny. Our views have never been the

same.”

“Certainly not. But which of the two, the bigot or the sceptic, was most

mistaken—which the most deserving pity?”

“Yourself,” replied the old man, without hesitation—“yes, my dear young

friend, yourself! All extremes are dangerous; but in superstition there

is faith, passion, vitality; and in scepticism, universal night—universal

death. Superstition is the pure stream diverted from its natural channel,

which inundates, submerges, and displaces the vegetable soil, but conveys

it elsewhere, and repairs, farther on its course, the injuries it has

produced; while scepticism is drought, dearth, sterility; burning and

scorching up, transmuting earth to sand, and rendering the mighty Palmyra

a ruin of the desert. Not content with placing an eternal bar betwixt us

and the Creator, incredulity relaxes the bonds of society and destroys

the ties of kindred and affection. In depriving man of his importance

as a being eternally responsible, it creates around him isolation and

contempt. He is alone in the world—alone with his pride; or, as I said

before, alone as a ruin in the desert.”

“Alone with his _pride_!” murmured Charney, reclining his elbow on

the arm of the bench, and his face upon his hand. “Pride! of what?—of

knowledge? of science? Oh, why should man labour to destroy the elements

of his happiness by seeking to analyze them or to sound their depths?

Even if indebted for his joys to a deception, why seek to raise the mask

and accelerate the disenchantment of his future life? Is truth so dear to

him? Does knowledge suffice the desires of his ambition? Madman! such was

my own delusion. ‘I am but a worm,’ said I to myself, ‘a worm destined

to annihilation’: then, raising myself in the dust where I was crawling,

I felt proud of the discovery—vain of my helpless nakedness. I believed

neither in virtue nor happiness; but at the thought of annihilation I

stopped proudly short and accorded my unlimited faith. My degradation

appeared a triumph to me, for it was assured by a discovery of my own.

Was I not justified in my estimation of a theory for which I had given

in exchange no less than my regal mantle—the countless treasure of my

immortality?”

The old man extended his hand encouragingly towards his companion.

[Illustration]

“Be judged by your own image of the worm,” said Girardi. “The worm, after

crawling its season on the earth, fed with bitter leaves, condemned

to the slime of the marsh or the dust of the road, constructs his

own chrysalis—a temporary coffin—from which to emerge, transformed,

purified—to flutter from flower to flower and feed upon their precious

perfumes. On two radiant wings the new creature takes its flight towards

the skies, even as man, the image of his Creator, rises to the bosom of

his God.”

Charney replied by a negative movement of the head.

“Your disease was more deeply rooted than my own,” observed Girardi, with

a mournful smile, “for your convalescence, I see, will be more tedious.

Have you already forgot the lessons of Picciola?”

“Not one of them!” replied Charney, in a tone of deep emotion. “I believe

in GOD. I believe in a first cause. I believe in an omniscient Power,

the eternal Controller of the universe. But your comparison of the worm

supposes the immortality of the soul; and by what is it demonstrated to

my reason?”

“By the instincts of the human soul, which irresistibly impel us to

look forward with hope and joy. Our life is a life of expectation.

From infancy to old age hope is the dominating pole of our destinies.

In what savage nation of the earth has not the doctrine of a future

state been found existent? And why should not the hope thus conceded

be accomplished? Is the power of God more infinite than the mind of

his creatures? I do not invoke the authority of revelation and the

Holy Scriptures. All convincing to myself: for _you_ they possess no

authority. The breeze which impels the ship is powerless to move the

rock: for the rock has no expanding sails to receive its impulse, and its

feet are buried in the ponderous immobility of earth. Shall we believe in

the eternity of matter, and not in that of the intelligence which serves

to regulate our opinions concerning matter? Or are we to suppose that

love, virtue, genius, result from the affinity of certain terrestrial

molecules? Can that which is devoid of thought enable us to think? Can

brute matter be the basis of human intelligence, when human intelligence

is able to direct and govern matter? Why, then, do not stocks and stones

think and feel as we do?”

“Locke, the great English metaphysician, was inclined to suppose that

matter might be endowed with ideas,” observed Charney. “There was

contradiction, indeed, in his theory, since he rejected the doctrine

of innate ideas, and seemed to admit the possibility of intuitive

knowledge.” Then, interrupting himself with a laugh, the Count exclaimed,

“Have a care, my kind instructor! I see you would fain involve me once

more in the quicksand of doubt, or plunge me into the bottomless pit of

metaphysics!”

“I have no knowledge of metaphysics,” said Girardi, gravely.

“And I but little,” observed Charney; “not, however, for want of devoting

my time to the study. But let us drop a subject unprofitable, and,

perhaps, injurious. You believe—rejoice in your belief! Your faith is

dear to me; and if, perchance, I should shake its foundations——”

“I defy you to the contest!” cried Girardi.

“What have you to gain by the result?”

“Your conversion; nothing less, my dear young friend, than your

conversion. Just now you quoted Locke. Of that eminent philosopher I

know but a single trait—that through life, and even on his death-bed, he

asserted the true happiness of mankind to consist in purity of conscience

and hope in eternal life.”

“I perfectly comprehend the _consolation_ to be derived from such a

creed, but my better reason forbids me to accept it. I entreat you, let

us drop the subject,” said the Count de Charney.

And a constrained silence ensued.

Soon afterwards, something which had been circling overhead suddenly

alighted on the foliage of the plant; a greenish insect, of which the

narrow corslet was undulated with whitish stripes.

“Sir!” cried Charney, “behold in good time a new text enabling you to

enlarge upon the mysteries of creation.”

Girardi took the insect with due precaution: examined it carefully;

paused for reflection; and suddenly an expression of triumph developed

itself in his countenance. An irresistible argument seemed to have fallen

from heaven in his hands. Commencing in his usual professional tone, he

gradually assumed a more sublime expression, as the secret object of his

lesson penetrated through his language.

[Illustration]

“Mere fly-catcher as I am,” he began with an arch smile, “I must restrict

myself to my humble attributions, and not presume to affect the pedantry

of the scholar.”

“The most enlightened mind,” said Charney, “the mind which has profited

most largely by the acquirement of knowledge, is that which soonest

discovers the limitation of its own powers, after vainly attempting to

penetrate into the hidden mysteries of things. Genius itself breaks its

wings against such obstacles, without having extracted from the wall of

flints, by which it is obstructed, one spark of the light of truth.”

“We ignoramuses,” observed Girardi, “arrive sooner at our object by

taking the most direct road. If we do but open our eyes, GOD deigns to

reveal himself in the august sublimity of his works.”

“On that point we are agreed,” interrupted Charney.

“Proceed we then in our course. An herb of the field sufficed to prove

to you the existence of a Providence; a butterfly, the law of universal

harmony; the insect before us, of which the organization is of a still

higher order, may lead us still farther towards conviction.”

Charney, at the instance of his friend, proceeded to examine the little

stranger with curious attention.

[Illustration]

“Behold this insignificant creature,” resumed Girardi. “All that human

genius could effect would not add one tittle to an organization perfectly

adapted to its wants and necessities. It has wings to transport it from

one place to another; elytra to incase and secure them from the contact

of any hard substance. Its breast is defended by a cuirass, its eyes

by a curious network that defies the prick of a thorn or the sting

of an enemy. It possesses antennæ to interrogate the obstacles that

present themselves, feet to attain its prey, iron mandibles to assist

in devouring it, in digging the earth for a refuge or a depository for

its food or eggs. If a dangerous adversary should approach, it has in

reserve an acrid and corrosive fluid, by discharging which it defies

its enemies. Instinct teaches it to find its food, to provide its

lodging, and exercise its powers of offence and defence. Nor is this a

solitary instance. Other insects are endowed with similar delicacy of

organization; the imagination recoils with wonder from the multiplicity

and variety of provisions invented by nature for the security of the

apparently feeble insect tribe. We have still to consider this fragile

creature as demonstrating the line of demarcation between mankind and the

brute creation.

“Man is sent naked into the world—feeble, helpless—unendowed with the

wings of a bird, the swiftness of the stag, the tortuous speed of

the serpent; without means of defence against the claws or darts of

an enemy, nay, against even the inclemency of the weather. He has no

shell, no fleece, no covering of fur, nor even a den or burrow for his

hiding-place. Yet by force of his natural powers, he has driven the lion

from his cave—despoiled the bear of his shaggy coat for a vestment, and

the bull of his horn to form a drinking-cup. He has dug into the entrails

of the earth, to bring forth elements of future strength; the very eagle,

in traversing the skies, finds itself struck down in the midst of its

career to adorn his cap with a trophy of distinction.

“Which of all the animal creation could have supported itself in the

midst of such difficulties and such privations? Let us for a moment

suppose the disunion of power and action—of GOD and nature. Nature has

done wonders for the insect before us; for man, apparently nothing.

Because man, an emanation from GOD himself, and formed after his image,

was created feeble and helpless as regards the organization of matter, in

order to demonstrate the divine influence of that ethereal spark, which

endows him with all the elements of future greatness.”

“Explain to me, at least,” interrupted Charney, “the peculiar value

of this precious gift, bestowed, you say, exclusively upon the human

species; superior in many points to the animal creation, surely we are

inferior in the majority. This very insect, whose wondrous powers you

have expounded, inspires me with a sense of inferiority and profound

humiliation.”

“From time immemorial,” replied Girardi, “animals have displayed no

progress in their powers of operation. What they are to-day, such

have they ever been; what to-day they know, they have known from the

beginning of the world. If born so lavishly endowed, it is because they

are incapable of improvement. They live not by their own will, but by

the impulse imparted to them by nature. From the creation until now,

the beaver has constructed his lodge upon the same plan; the caterpillar

and spider woven their cocoons and tissues of the same form; the bee

projected his cell of the same hexagon; the lion-ant traced, without a

compass, its circles and arches. The character of _their_ labours is that

of exactitude and uniformity; that of man, diversity—for human labour

arises from a free and creative faculty of mind. Judge therefore between

them! Of all created beings, man alone possesses the idea of duty, of

responsibility, of contemplation, of piety. Alone of all the earth he is

endowed with insight into futurity, and the knowledge of life and death.”

“But is this knowledge an advantage? is it a source of happiness?”

demanded the Count. “Why has _God_ bestowed upon us reason by which we

are led astray, and learning which serves but to perplex us? With all our

superiority, how often are we forced to despise ourselves! Why is the

exclusively privileged being the only one liable to error? Is not the

instinct of animals preferable to _our_ glimmering reason?”

“Both species were not created for the same end. GOD requires not

virtue of the brute creation. Were _they_ endowed with reason, with

liberty of choice as regards their food and lodgment, the equilibrium

of the world would be destroyed. The will of the Creator decided that

the surface of the globe, and even its depths, should be filled with

animated beings—that life should pervade the universe; in pursuance of

which, plains, valleys, forests, from the mountain top to the lowest

chasms—trees, rocks, rivers, lakes, oceans, from the sandy desert to the

marshy swamp—in all climates and latitudes—from one pole to the other—all

is peopled—all instinct with life, all blended in one vast sphere

of existence. Whether sheltered in the depths of the wilderness, or

behind a blade of grass, the lion and the pismire are alike at the post

assigned them by nature. Each has his part to play, his place to guard,

his predestined line of action; each is enchained within his proper

bound; for every square of the infinite chess-board was from the first

appropriately filled. Man alone is free to range over all, to traverse

oceans and deserts; pitch his tent on the sand, or construct a floating

palace on the waters; to defy the Alpine snows or the fervours of the

torrid zone—

“‘The world is all before him, where to choose

His place of rest, and Providence his guide!’”

“But if Providence indeed exert such influence, from whence the crimes

arising in all human communities, and the disasters which overwhelm

mankind?” cried Charney. “I sympathize in your admiration of all created

things; my reason is overwhelmed when I examine the mighty whole, but on

descending to the history of the human species——”

“My friend,” interrupted Girardi, “arraign not the wisdom of the Almighty

because of the errors of mankind, the devastations of a hurricane, or the

eruptions of a volcano! Immutable laws are imprinted upon matter; and

the work of ages is accomplished, whether a vessel founder in a storm,

or a city disappear beneath the surface of the earth. Of what account in

the sight of the Almighty a few human existences more or less? Does the

Supreme Being believe in the reality of death, the darkness of the grave?

“No! But HE has conferred on our souls the power of self-government, and

this is proved by the independence of our passions. I have portrayed

animals submitted to the irresistible influence of instinct—possessing

only blind tendencies, and the qualities inherent in their several

species. Man alone is the parent of his virtues and his vices; man alone

is endowed with free agency; because for him this earth is a place of

probation. The tree of good and evil which we cultivate here, is to bear

its fruits in a higher or a lower region. Do you imagine the omniscient

GOD so unjust as to leave the afflictions of the virtuous unrewarded?

Were this world the limit of our reward and punishment, the man who

dies by a stroke of lightning ought to be accounted a malefactor, and

the fortune of the prosperous should suffice as a certification of

excellence!”

Charney listened in silence: impressed by the simple eloquence of his

instructor, his eyes were fixed upon the noble countenance on which the

excitement of a mind innately pious was imprinting an almost august

character of inspiration.

“But why,” at length murmured the Count, “why has not GOD vouchsafed us

the positive certainty of our immortality?”

“Doubt was perhaps indispensable,” replied the venerable man, rising

and placing his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his youthful

companion, “to repress the vanity of human reason. What is the merit of

virtue, if its rewards be assured beforehand? What would become of free

will? The soul of man is expansive, but not infinite—vast in its power

of apprehending its own distinctions, and of appreciating the Creator by

the mightiness of his works; yet so limited as to render it profoundly

sensible of its dependence upon Providence. Man is permitted a glimpse of

his destinies—FAITH must effect the rest.

“Oh! mighty and all-seeing GOD!” cried Girardi, suddenly interrupting

himself, and clasping his hands in all the fervour of supplication, “lend

me the strength of thine arm to upraise from the dust this man who is

struggling with his human weakness and the desire to reach thy fountains

of light! Lend me thy wisdom to direct the aspirations of this longing

and bewildered soul! Lend eloquence to the words of my lips, that they

may be endued with the strength and power of the faith that is in me!

The humblest of thy creations—a flower, and an insect—have startled the

sceptic in his self-security; give grace to these, O Lord! if not to me,

to perfect the work thine infinite mercy has begun; and if not by me, by

the humble plant before us, be the miracle of thy holiness accomplished!”

The old man was silent. An ecstacy of prayer had taken possession of

his soul; and when, at the close of his unuttered devotions, he turned

towards his companion, Charney was bending his head upon his hands,

clasped together upon the back of the bench where they were sitting.

On raising his head, his countenance bore traces of the most devout

meditation.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

In the purified heart of Charney, the blood now flowed more calmly: in

his expanded mind, mild and consolatory ideas succeeded each other in

gentle gradation. Like the wise Piedmontese, his friend, he was fully

alive to the conviction that happiness connects itself indissolubly with

love of our fellow-creatures; and in striving to people his imagination

with those to whom he was bound by ties of gratitude; the Empress,

Girardi, and Ludovico, presented themselves first to his mind. But at

length two female shadows became perceptible at either extremity of

this rainbow of love, expanding after the storm, just as we see in

altar-pieces, two seraphim, with brows inclined, and half-closed wings,

supporting the arch of the picture.

One of these shadows was the fairy of his dreams—the maiden Picciola,

emanating, fresh, fair, and blooming, from the perfumes of his flower;

the other, the guardian angel of his prison—his second providence—Teresa

Girardi.

By a singular inconsistency, the former, whose existence was purely

ideal, haunted his memory in a fixed, distinct, and positive form; he

could discern the varying expression of her brow, the glittering of her

eye, the smile of her lips—such as she had once appeared to him in his

dreams, such was she ever manifested. Whereas Teresa, on whom he had

never fixed his eyes, or only while still under the influence of a waking

dream, under what traits could he summon her to his remembrance? In _her_

instance, the countenance of the seraph was veiled; and when Charney, in

despair, attempted to raise the veil, it was still the face of Picciola

that smiled upon him: of Picciola, multiplying herself as if for the

purpose of interrupting the homage he would fain have offered to her

rival.

One morning, the prisoner of Fenestrella, though wide awake, fancied

himself alarmingly dominated by this strange hallucination. The day

was dawning. Having risen from his cheerless bed, he was musing upon

Girardi, who, prepared for his speedy release from prison, had infused

such tenderness into his adieu of the preceding night, that the Count

had been kept all night sleepless by the impression of their approaching

separation. After pacing his room for some time in silence, he looked

out from his grated window upon the bench of conference, where, only

the evening before, he had been engaged with Girardi in conversation

relative to his daughter; and lo! through the gray-hued mists of autumn,

he fancied he could discern a woman—the figure of a young and graceful

woman—seated on the spot. She was alone, and in an inclining attitude; as

if engaged in contemplation of the flower before her.

Recalling to mind the probability of Teresa’s arrival, Charney naturally

exclaimed, “It is herself! Teresa is arrived! I am about to see her for a

moment, and then behold her face no more; and in losing her I shall also

be deprived of my venerated companion.”

As he spoke, the figure turned toward his window; and the countenance

revealed to him by the movement was no other than the face of his

dream-love—of Picciola—still and always, PICCIOLA!

Stupefied by the discovery, he passed his hand over his brow, his eyes,

his garments, the cold iron bars of his window—in order to be satisfied

that he was awake, and that _this_ time, at least, it was not a dream.

The young woman rose, moved a few paces towards him, and smiling and

blushing, addressed him a confused gesture of salutation; but Charney

made no acknowledgment, either of the smile or the gesture by which it

was accompanied. He kept his eye fixed upon the graceful form which

traversed the misty court; a form in every point resembling that with

which his ideal Picciola was invested in the dreams of his solitude.

Fancying himself under the influence of delirium, he threw himself on

the bed, in hopes of recovering his composure and presence of mind. Some

minutes afterwards the door opened, and Ludovico made his appearance.

“_Oimé! oimé!_—Sad news and great news, _eccellenza_!” cried he. “One of

my birds is about to take flight—not over the walls, indeed, but over the

drawbridge. So much the better for him, and the worse for you.”

“Is it to be to-day, then?” demanded Charney, in a tone of emotion.

“I hardly know, _Signor Conte_; but it can’t be far off; for the act of

release has been already signed in Paris, and is known to be on its way

to Turin; at least, so the young lady just now told her father in my

hearing.”

“How!” cried Charney, starting from his reclining attitude. “She is

arrived, then—she is _here_!”

“At Fenestrella, _eccellenza_, since yesterday evening, and provided

with a formal order for her admission into the fortress. But there is a

special injunction against letting down the drawbridge after hours, for a

female; so she was obliged to put off her visit till this morning, _Capo

di Dio_! I knew she was there, but kept the secret as close as wax. Not

a syllable did I let fall before the poor old gentleman, or he would not

have had a wink of sleep. The night would have seemed as long as ten,

had he known that his child was so near. This morning she was up before

the sun; and waited for admittance at the gates of the citadel, in the

morning fogs—like a good soul and good daughter, as she is.”

“And did she not wait some time in the courtyard—seated yonder on the

bench?” cried Charney, confounded by all he was hearing. And, rushing

to the window, he cast an inquiring glance anew upon the little court,

adding, in an altered voice, “But she is gone, I see! she is there no

longer!”

“Of course not—_now_; but she _was_ there half an hour ago,” replied the

jailer. “She stayed in the court while I went up stairs to prepare her

father for the visit; for the poor young lady had heard that people may

die of joy. Joy, you see, _eccellenza_, is like spirituous liquors—a

thimblefull, now and then, does a man a power of good; but, let him

toss off a whole gourd, and there’s an end of him at once. Now, bless

their poor hearts, they are together; and, seeing them so happy, _per

Bacco_, I found myself suddenly all of a no-how; which made me think of

your excellency, and how you were about to be deprived of your friend;

and so I made off to remind you that Ludovico will still be left you—to

say nothing of Picciola. To be sure, poor thing, she is losing her

beauty—scarce a leaf left. But _that_ is the natural effect of the

season. You must not despise her for _that_.”

And the jailer quitted the room, without waiting the reply of Charney;

who, deeply affected, vainly tried to explain to himself the mysteries of

his vision. He was now almost persuaded that the sweet figure by which

his dreams were haunted, to which he had assigned the name of Picciola,

was the creature of reminiscence—that, absorbed by interest in his plant,

he had cast his eyes on Teresa Girardi, as she stood at the grated

window, and unwittingly received an impression eventually reproduced by

his dreams.

While he was thus reasoning, the murmur of two voices reached him from

the stairs; and, in addition to the well-known steps of the old man,

gliding over the stones, he could distinguish the light, airy foot of

one who scarcely seemed to touch the steps as she descended. At length,

the measured sound ceased at his door. He started. But Girardi made his

appearance alone.

“My daughter is here,” said the old man. “She is waiting for us beside

your plant.”

Charney followed in silence. He had not courage to articulate a syllable.

A consciousness of pain and constraint chased every feeling of pleasure

from his heart.

[Illustration]

Was this the consequence of being about to present himself before a woman

to whom he was so largely indebted, and towards whom it was impossible

for him to discharge the obligation; or of shame for his ungraciousness

of the morning, in neglecting to return her smile and salutation? As

the time of separation from Girardi approached, were his fortitude and

resignation forsaking him? No matter what the motive of his embarrassment

in presenting himself before Teresa Girardi, no one could have discerned,

in his language or demeanour, traces of the brilliant and popular Count

de Charney—the ease of the man of the world, the self-possession of the

philosopher, had given place to an awkwardness, a hesitation, which

called forth, in the answers of Teresa, a correspondent tone of coldness

and circumspection.

In spite of all Girardi’s exertions to place his daughter and his friend

on an agreeable footing, their conversation turned only upon indifferent

subjects, or trite remarks upon the dawning hopes of all parties.

Having in some degree recovered from his emotion, Charney read, in the

features of the lovely Piedmontese, only the most complete indifference;

and persuaded himself that the services she had rendered him had been

instigated by the impulses of a generous disposition; or, perhaps, by the

commands of her father.

Charney began almost to regret that the interview had taken place; for

he felt that he could never more invest her, in his reveries, with her

former fascinations. While all three were seated on the bench, Girardi,

wrapt in contemplation of his daughter, and Charney giving utterance to a

few cold, incoherent remarks, there escaped, from the folds of Teresa’s

dress, as she was drawn suddenly forward, by the tender embrace of her

father, a medallion of gold and crystal. On stooping to pick it up,

Charney could readily discern that one side was occupied by a lock of her

father’s gray hair, and the other by a withered flower. He looked again;

he gazed anxiously; he could not mistake it. The hidden treasure was the

identical flower of Picciola which he had sent her by Ludovico.

Teresa had kept his flower, then—had preserved it—treasured it with

the gray hairs of her father—the father whom she adored! The flower

of Picciola no longer adorned the raven tresses of the young girl,

but rested upon her heart! This discovery produced an instantaneous

revolution in the sentiments of Charney. He began to consider the

charms of Teresa, as if a new personage had offered herself to his

observation—as if he had seen her metamorphosed by enchantment before his

eyes.

The Count now perceived that, as she turned her expressive looks towards

her father, the two-fold character of tenderness and placidity impressed

upon her beauty, was analogous with that of Raphael’s Madonnas—that

she was lovely with the loveliness of a pure and perfect soul. Charney

retraced, with deliberate admiration, her animated profile—her

countenance, expressive of the union of strength and softness, energy

and timidity. It was long since he had looked upon a new human face—how

much longer since he had contemplated, in combination, youth, beauty,

and virtue! The spectacle seemed to intoxicate his senses; and, after a

glance at the graceful form and perfect symmetry of Teresa Girardi, his

wandering eyes fixed themselves once more on the medallion.

“You did not disdain my humble offering, then!” faltered the Count; and

faint as was the whisper in which the words were conveyed, they roused

the pride of Teresa; who, advancing her hand to receive the trinket,

replaced it hurriedly in her dress. But at that moment she was struck by

the change of expression visible in the features of the Count; and both

their faces became suffused with blushes.

“What is the matter, my dear child?” demanded Girardi, noticing her

confusion.

“Nothing!” she replied, with emotion. Then, as if ashamed of playing

the hypocrite with her parent, suddenly added, “This medallion, father,

contains a lock of your hair.” Then, as she turned towards Charney—“And

this flower, sir, is the one you sent me by Ludovico. I have preserved

it, and shall keep it forever.”

In her words—in the sound of her voice—in the intuitive modesty which

induced her to unite her father and the stranger in her explanations,

there was at once so much ingenuousness and purity of feminine instinct,

that Charney began for the first time to appreciate the true merits of

Teresa Girardi.

The remainder of that happy day elapsed amid effusions of mutual

friendship, which every moment seemed to enhance. Independent of

the secret power which attracts us towards another, the progress of

friendship is always rapid in proportion to the time we know to be

allowed us for the cultivation of dawning partiality. This was the

first day that Charney and Teresa had conversed together; but they had

had occasion to think so much of each other, and so few hours were

assigned them to be together, that a mutual acquaintance was speedily

accomplished; so that, when Charney, impelled by good breeding and good

feeling, would fain have retired, in order to afford an opportunity to

the father and daughter, so long separated, to converse together alone,

Girardi and Teresa alike opposed the movement of retreat.

“Are you about to leave us?” said the latter. “Do you, then, consider

yourself a stranger to my father, _or to me_?” added the young girl in

a tone of gentle reproach. And, in order to make him fully apprehend

how little restraint was imposed upon her by his presence, Teresa began

to detail to her father all that had befallen her from the moment of

her departure from Fenestrella, and the means she had employed to

bring together the two captives; addressing, at the conclusion of her

narrative, a request to Charney, to relate all the little events of the

citadel, and the progress of his studies connected with Picciola. After

this appeal, the Count did not hesitate to confess the history of his

early miseries—the tedium of his captivity—and the blessing vouchsafed

him in the arrival of his plant: while Teresa, gay and naïve, stimulated

his confession, by the liveliness of her inquiries and repartees.

Seated between the two, and holding a hand of each—of the daughter thus

restored to him, and the friend he was about to leave—the venerable

Girardi listened to their discourse with an air of mingled joy and

sadness. At one moment, when, by a spontaneous movement, he was about to

clasp his hands, those of Charney and Teresa were brought almost into

contact, the two young people appeared startled, touched, embarrassed,

and, though silent, communicated their emotion to each other by a rapid

glance. But, without affectation or prudery, Teresa soon disengaged her

hand from that of her father; and, placing it affectionately on his

shoulder, looked smilingly towards the Count, as if inviting him to

resume his narrative.

Enchanted and emboldened by so much grace and candour, Charney described

the reveries produced by the emanations of his plant. How could he

forbear allusion to that which constituted the great event of his

captivity? He spoke of the fair being whom he had been induced to

worship as the personification of Picciola; and, while tracing her

portrait with warmth—or rather transport—the smiles of Teresa gradually

disappeared, and her bosom swelled with agitation.

The narrator was careful to assign no name to the soft image he tried

to call up before their eyes; but when, in completing the history of

the disasters of his plant he reached the moment when, by order of the

commandant, the dying Picciola was on the eve of being torn up before his

eyes, Teresa could not refrain from a cry of sympathy.

“My poor Picciola!” cried she.

“_Thine!_” reiterated her father, with a smile.

“Yes, _mine_! Did I not contribute to her preservation?” persisted Teresa.

And Charney, in confirming her title to the adoption, felt as if, from

that moment, a sacred bond of community were established between them for

evermore.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

Gladly would the Count de Charney have renounced his liberty for the

remainder of his days, could he have secured the sentence of passing

them at Fenestrella, between Teresa Girardi and her father. He no longer

deceived himself. He felt that he loved Teresa as he had never loved

before. A sentiment to which his breast had hitherto been a stranger, now

penetrated into its depths, impetuous and gentle, sweet and stimulating,

like some acid fruit of the tropics, at once sweet and refreshing. His

new passion revealed itself not only by transports hitherto unknown, but

by the serene glow of a holy tenderness, embracing universal nature; nay,

the great Lord and Creator of nature and nature’s works. His brain, his

heart, his whole existence, seemed to dilate, as if to embrace the new

hopes, projects, and emotions, crowding on his regenerate existence.

Next day, the three friends met again beside Picciola; Girardi and the

Count occupying their bench, and Teresa a chair of state, placed opposite

them by the gallantry of Ludovico. She had brought with her some task of

woman’s work, some strip of delicate embroidery, over which her soft

countenance inclined, her graceful head following the movements of her

needle; and every now and then raising her eyes and suspending her work,

to interpose some playful remark in their grave dissertations. At length,

suddenly rising, she crossed over towards her father, threw her arms

round his neck, and pressed her lips repeatedly to his reverend locks.

The conversation between the two disputants was not renewed: for Charney

was already absorbed in profound meditation. He could not forbear

inquiring of himself whether he were beloved in return by Teresa—a

question which produced two conflicting sentiments in his bosom. He

feared to believe—he trembled to doubt. The flower—his gift—so carefully

preserved—the emotion evinced when their hands were accidentally united

on the knees of the old man—the tremor with which she had listened to the

recital of his impassioned dreams—all this was in his favour. But the

words breathed with so tender an inflexion of voice had been pronounced

in the presence of her father; what sense, therefore, dared he assign to

her tokens of compassion, her deeds of kindness and devotion? Had she not

afforded proofs of the same good-will before they had even met—before

even an interchange of looks and words had taken place between them? What

right has he to interpret in his favour the indications of feeling he has

since detected in her deportment?

No matter: of his own attachment, at least, he is certain. _He_ not

only loves Teresa, but has sworn within his heart of hearts to love her

through life and death; substituting for an ideal image, henceforward

superfluous, one of the most charming realities of human nature.

But the attachment of which he is thus conscious is a secret to be

preserved in the inmost archives of his soul: it would be a sin, a crime,

to invoke the participation of Teresa in his passion. What right has he

to imbitter the happy prospects of _her_ life? Are they not destined to

live apart from each other? _she_, free, happy, in the midst of a world

which she embellishes, and where she will doubtless soon confer happiness

on another in the bosom of domestic life; while _he_, in his solitary

prison, must consecrate himself to eternal solitude and eternal regrets

for his momentary happiness.

No! his passion shall be sedulously concealed. He will assume towards

Teresa Girardi the demeanour of a person wholly indifferent, or satisfy

himself with the calm demonstrations of a prudent and equable friendship.

It would be too deep a misfortune for _him_—for _both_—were he to succeed

in engaging her affections.

Full of these fine projects for the future, the first sounds that meet

his ear on the cessation of his reverie were the following sentences

interchanged between Teresa and her father, the former of whom was

exerting all her eloquence to persuade the old man that the moment of

his liberation was at hand; while Girardi persisted in expressing a

conviction that the remainder of the year would expire without producing

any material change in his destinies. “I know the dilatoriness of public

functionaries,” said he; “I know the vacillations of government. So

little suffices as a pretext for the suspension of justice, and the

cooling of a great man’s mercy!”

“If such is your opinion,” cried Teresa, “I will return to-morrow to

Turin, to hasten the fulfilment of their promises.”

“What need of so much haste?” demanded the father.

“How, dear father!” she replied, “is it possible that you prefer your

mean and narrow chamber, and this wretched court, to your beautiful villa

and gardens on the Collina?”

This seeming anxiety on the part of Teresa to leave Fenestrella ought

to have convinced Charney that he was beloved, and that the danger

that he dreaded for the object of his romantic attachment was already

consummated. But the part he had intended to play was now wholly

frustrated. Instead of affecting indifference, tranquillity, or even the

reserve of a prudent friendship, he manifested only the petulance of a

lover. Teresa, however, remained apparently unconscious of his fit of

perversity; and was not deterred by his resentment from repeating, that

if the decree of her father’s liberation should be again delayed, it was

her duty to set off for Turin, and renew her solicitations to General

Menon; nay, even for Paris, for a personal application to the Emperor.

Usually so reserved and mild, the fair Piedmontese seemed excited on the

present occasion to unusual vivacity.

“I scarcely understand you this morning,” said her father, amazed to

observe the gaiety of her deportment in presence of the poor prisoner

whom they were about to abandon to his misfortunes; and if her father

found something to regret in her demeanour, how much rather the grieved

and disappointed Charney!

The same reflections which had perplexed his mind the preceding night

had, in fact, been passing also through the mind of Teresa. She had

discovered, _not_ the arrival of Love in her bosom, but that it had long

resided there an unsuspected inmate: and though, like Charney, she would

willingly have accepted, as regarded her own happiness, the perils and

privations with which it was accompanied, like Charney she was reluctant

that all these should be inflicted upon another. The delight of loving,

the dread of being loved, threw her into a state of mental contradiction,

and produced the garrulity in which she sought refuge from herself.

Soon, however, all this constraint, all these efforts to disguise their

real sentiments, were suddenly dropped on both sides. After listening

attentively to the information imparted by Girardi, who mentioned

frequent instances where the pardon of prisoners, though publicly

announced, had not been suffered to take effect for many succeeding

months, the young people allowed themselves to be convinced; and with

mutual and unconcealed delight, began performing projects for the morrow

and succeeding days, as if, henceforward, the fortress of Fenestrella

were to be the home of their happiness and choice. Restored to the

society of Teresa, their guardian angel, the two captives appeared to

have but a single earthly misfortune to apprehend, the liberation of one

of them to disunite the little party.

Already, the philosophers were resuming their arguments, and Teresa her

embroidery. The pale rays of the sun, partially illuminating the little

court, fell lightly on the countenance of Girardi’s daughter, while a

refreshing breeze played amid the folds of her drapery and the floating

ribands by which it was confined. At length, excited by the freshness

of the atmosphere, she threw aside her work, rose from her seat, shook

out the ringlets of her raven hair, rejoicing in the return of hope and

sunshine, when suddenly the postern-door was thrown open, and Captain

Morand, accompanied by Ludovico and a municipal officer, made his

appearance.

They came to signify to Giacomo Girardi the act of his liberation. He

was to quit Fenestrella without delay; a carriage was in waiting at the

extremity of the glacis to convey him and his daughter to Turin.

At the moment of the commandant’s arrival, Teresa was standing beside

her father, but she instantly sank backward in her chair, resumed her

needlework, and, had Charney ventured a look towards her, he would have

been startled, on perceiving how instantaneously the hues of life and

health had faded from her cheek. But Charney neither stirred nor raised

his eyes from the ground, while Girardi was receiving from the hands

of the officers those papers and documents which were to restore him,

with an unblemished reputation, to his station in society. All was now

complete; and there was no longer an excuse for prolonging the liberated

prisoner’s preparations for departure.

Ludovico had already brought down from Girardi’s chamber the solitary

trunk containing his effects; the officers waited to escort him back

to Turin; the hour of parting had irrevocably struck. Rising once from

her seat, Teresa began deliberately to put up her working materials,

and arrange the scarf upon her shoulders; she even tried to put on her

gloves, but her hands trembled too much to effect her purpose.

[Illustration: _The farewell._]

Charney stood for a moment paralysed by the blow. Then, arming himself

with courage, he exclaimed, as he threw himself into the arms of Girardi—

“Farewell, my dearest father!”

“Farewell, _my son_! farewell, my beloved son,” faltered the good old

man. “Be of good cheer. Rely upon our exertions in your behalf; rely on

the steadiness of our affection. Adieu, adieu!”

[Illustration]

For some moments longer Girardi held him pressed to his heart; then, by a

sudden effort, relinquishing his warm embrace, turned towards Ludovico,

and, by way of concealing his own emotion, affected to busy himself by

giving in charge to the jailer the friend he was about to leave; to which

the poor fellow, perfectly comprehending the old man’s motives, replied

only by offering the support of his arm to conduct his faltering steps to

the carriage.

Charney, meanwhile, drew near to Teresa for the purpose of a last

farewell. Leaning with one hand on the back of her chair, her eyes fixed

on the ground, she stood motionless, speechless, as if there were no

question of quitting the place. Even when the Count advanced towards

her, she remained for some moments without speaking, till, irresistibly

moved by his paleness and agitation, she exclaimed, “I call our Picciola

to witness that——” But Teresa was not able to complete the sentence; her

heart was too full to utter another syllable. One of her gloves at that

moment escaped her trembling hands, which Charney picked up; and, ere he

restored it, raised it silently to his lips.

“Keep it!” said she, while tears streamed down her cheeks, “keep it till

we meet again.”

Another moment, and she was following her father. They were gone! All was

dark in the destinies of the Count de Charney. After watching the closing

of the postern-door, he stood like one petrified, with his eyes fixed on

the spot where they had disappeared; his hand still grasping convulsively

the parting pledge bestowed upon him by Teresa.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CONCLUSION.

A philosopher has remarked that greatness must be renounced before it

can be appreciated; the same thing might have been said of fortune,

happiness, or any mode of enjoyment liable to become habitual.

Never had the poor captive of Fenestrella so venerated the wisdom of

Girardi, the charms and virtues of his daughter, as after the departure

of his two companions! Profound sadness succeeded to this momentary

elation. The efforts of Ludovico, the attentions required by Picciola,

were insufficient to divert his attention from his sorrows. But at

length, the sources of consolation he had derived from the study of

nature brought forth their fruit; and the depressed Charney gradually

resumed his strength of mind.

His last stroke of affliction had perfected the happy frame of his

feelings. His first impulse had been to bless the loneliness which

afforded his whole leisure to muse upon his absent friends; but

eventually he learned to behold with satisfaction a new guest seated in

the vacant place of the old man.

[Illustration]

His first and most assiduous visitor was the chaplain of the prison, even

the worthy priest whom during his illness he had so harshly repulsed.

Apprised by Ludovico of the state of despair to which the prisoner was

reduced, he made his appearance, forgetful of the past, to offer his good

offices, which were received with courtesy and gratitude. More amicably

disposed than formerly towards mankind, the Count soon became favourably,

nay, even affectionately disposed towards the man of God; and the rustic

seat became once more the bench of conference. The philosopher loved

to enlarge upon the wonders of his plant, the wonders of nature, and

repeat the lessons of the excellent Girardi; while the priest, without

bringing forward a single dogma of religion, contented himself, in the

first instance, with reciting the sublime moral lessons of Christianity:

grounding their strength upon the principles already imbibed by the

votary of natural religion.

The second visitor was the commandant; and Charney now discovered that

Morand was essentially a good sort of man, whose heart was militarily

disciplined; that is, disposed to torment the unfortunate beings

under his charge no farther than he was necessitated by the letter

of government instructions. So just, too, did he show himself in his

appreciation of the merits of the two prisoners recently released, as

almost to put Charney into good humour with petty tyranny.

But all this was soon to end; and it became Charney’s turn to bid adieu

to the priest and the captain. One fine day, when least prepared for the

concession, the gates of his prison opened, and he was set at liberty!

On Napoleon’s return from Austerlitz, incessantly importuned by Josephine

(who had probably some person besetting her in turn with supplications

in favour of the prisoner of Fenestrella), the Emperor caused an inquiry

to be made into the nature of the papers seized among the effects of the

Count de Charney. The cambric manuscripts were accordingly forwarded

to the Tuileries, from the archives of the police, where they had been

deposited; and, attracted by the singularity of their appearance,

Napoleon himself deigned to investigate the indications of treason

contained in their mysterious records.

[Illustration]

“The Count de Charney is a madman,” exclaimed the Emperor, after most

deliberate examination; “a visionary and a madman; but not the dangerous

person represented to me. He who could submit his powers of mind to the

influence of a sorry weed, may have in him the making of an excellent

botanist, but not of a conspirator. He is pardoned! Let his estates be

restored to him, that he may cultivate there, unmolested, his own fields,

and his taste for natural history.”

Need it be added that the Count did not loiter at Fenestrella after

receiving this welcome intelligence; or that he did not quit the fortress

alone? but, transplanted into a solid case, filled with good earth,

Picciola made her triumphal exit from her gloomy birth-place—Picciola,

to whom he owed his life—nay, more than life—his insight into the

wondrous works of God, and the joys resulting from peace and good-will

towards mankind—Picciola, by whom he has been betrayed into the toils

of love—Picciola, through whose influence, finally, he is released from

bondage!

As Charney was about to cross the drawbridge of the citadel, a rude

hand was suddenly extended towards him. “_Eccellenza!_” said Ludovico,

repressing his rising emotion, “give us your hand! we may be friends now

that you are going away—now that you are about to leave us—now that we

shall see your face no more! Thank Heaven, we may be friends!”

[Illustration]

Charney heartily embraced him. “We _shall_ meet again, my good Ludovico,”

cried he; “I promise you that you do not see me for the last time.” And,

having shaken both the hands of the jailer again and again with the

utmost cordiality, the Count quitted the fortress.

After his carriage had traversed the esplanade, and left far behind the

mountain on which the citadel is situated, crossed the bridge over the

Clusone, and attained the Suza road, a voice still continued crying aloud

from the ramparts, “_Addio, Signor Conte! Addio, addio, Picciola!_”

Six months afterwards, a rich equipage stopped at the gate of the state

prison of Fenestrella; from which alighted a traveller inquiring for

Ludovico Ritti: the former prisoner was come to pay a visit to his

jailer! A young lady, richly attired, was leaning tenderly upon his

arm—Teresa Girardi, now Countess de Charney. Together, the young couple

visited the little court and the miserable camera, so long the abode

of weariness, scepticism, and despair. Of all the sentences which had

formerly disfigured the wall, one only had been suffered to remain—

[Illustration]

“Learning, wit, beauty, youth, fortune, are insufficient to confer

happiness upon man.”

To which the gentle hand of Teresa now added, “if unshared by

affection”—and a kiss, deposited by Charney upon her lovely cheek, seemed

to confirm her emendation.

[Illustration]

The Count was come to request Ludovico would stand godfather to his

first-born child, which was to make its appearance before the close of

the year; and, the object of their mission accomplished, the young couple

proceeded to Turin, where, in his beautiful villa, Girardi was awaiting

their return.

There, in a garden closely adjoining his own apartment, in the centre

of a rich parterre, warmed and brightened by the beams of the setting

sun, Charney had deposited his beloved plant, out of reach of all danger

or obstruction. By his especial order, no hand but his own was to

minister to her culture. He alone was to watch over Picciola. It was an

occupation, a duty, a tax eternally adopted by his gratitude.

[Illustration]

How quickly—how enchantingly did his days now glide along! In the midst

of exquisite gardens, on the banks of a beautiful stream, under an

auspicious sky, Charney was the happiest of the human kind! Time imparted

only additional strength to the ties in which he had enchained himself;

as the ivy cements and consolidates the wall it embraces. The friendship

of Girardi, the tenderness of Teresa, the attachment of all who resided

under his roof, conspired to form his happiness, perfected at the happy

moment when he heard himself saluted as a father.

Charney’s affection for his son soon seemed to rival that he bore his

young and lovely wife. He was never weary of contemplating and adoring

them, and could scarcely make up his mind to lose sight of them for a

moment. And lo! when Ludovico Ritti arrived from Fenestrella to fulfil

his promise to the Count, and proceeded to visit, in the first instance,

his original god-daughter—the god-daughter of the prison—he found

that amid all this domestic happiness—all these transports of joy and

affection—all the rapture and prosperity brightening the home of the

Count and Countess de Charney, PICCIOLA had been forgotten—_La povera

Picciola_ had died of neglect, unnoticed and unlamented. The appointed

task was over. The herb of grace had nothing farther to unfold to the

happy husband, father, and believer!

[Illustration]

THE END.

D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS.

_IN THE TRACK OF THE SUN._ Readings from the Diary of a Globe Trotter. By

FREDERICK DIODATI THOMPSON. Profusely illustrated with Engravings from

Photographs and Drawings by Harry Fenn. Large 8vo. Cloth, gilt.

In this magnificently illustrated volume the author describes in an

easy, entertaining, intelligent manner the tour of the world. Starting

from New York, he crosses the continent, sails from Vancouver for

Japan, where he spends some time in studying noteworthy features of

that delightful country, and then visits China, Singapore, Ceylon, and

other places, reserving a considerable portion of his time for India

and Egypt, where he does most extensive sight-seeing, and afterward

traversing Italy and France and returning to New York by way of London

and Liverpool. Mr. Thompson is an instructive and amusing _cicerone_. The

illustrations, comprising full-page pictures, vignettes and other text

cuts, head and tail pieces, and initials, number over two hundred, and

present an itinerary of the journey around the world, including not only

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abundance of studies from life, which show contrasting types of humanity

the world over, ranging from our Western Indians to Maharajahs of the

Orient, and from the beautiful women of Japan to Egyptian _fellahs_. “In

the Track of the Sun” gives a bird’s-eye view of the world’s picturesque

features.

_POEMS OF NATURE._ Selections from the Works of WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Profusely illustrated by Paul de Longpré. 8vo, Cloth, gilt.

These verses offer a full expression of the great poet’s love of Nature.

The volume contains over forty poems, the list beginning with the

classic “To a Waterfowl,” and closing with “Our Fellow-Worshippers.”

The chronological arrangement enables the student of Bryant to follow

the influences of ripening age and enlarged experience upon the poet’s

attitude toward Nature. M. Longpré, an exact as well as a loving student

of the fields and forests, has gathered a rich harvest of the American

flora, and his thoroughly artistic and beautiful studies, comprising

nearly one hundred subjects, have the value of truthful records as well

as high aesthetic worth.

_THE COUNTRY SCHOOL IN NEW ENGLAND._ By CLIFTON JOHNSON. With 60

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This volume is so delightfully novel, quaint, picturesque, and so

thoroughly informed with the fresh and unsophisticated spirit of

childhood, that it inspires instant sympathy and appreciation. The

author describes successive periods of the country school—the winter and

summer terms, the scholars in their classes and at the blackboard, their

punishments, their fishing and coasting, their duties and amusements on

the farm—in short, the every-day life of the boys and girls of rural

New England in the days of our fathers and our own. Every phase of his

subject is aptly illustrated with pictures from life.

_THE STORY OF WASHINGTON._ By ELIZABETH EGGLESTON SEELYE. Edited by Dr.

Edward Eggleston. With over 100 Illustrations by Allegra Eggleston. 12mo.

Cloth, $1.75.

This book will supply a demand for a life of Washington, the man, of

convenient size, popular, including the latest results of research,

planned according to the methods of the new school of history, and

containing illustrations of almost every available subject which the

story includes. Mrs. Seelye’s book is always interesting, and it is

not encumbered with superfluous details. It is uniform with “The Story

of Columbus,” by the same author.

_HERMINE’S TRIUMPHS._ A Story for Girls and Boys. By MADAME COLOMB. With

100 Illustrations. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

The popularity of this charming story of French home life, which has

passed through many editions in Paris, has been earned by the sustained

interest of the narrative, the sympathetic presentation of character,

and the wholesomeness of the lessons which are suggested. One of the

most delightful books for girls published in recent years. It is bound

uniformly with “Straight On.”

_STRAIGHT ON._ A Story of a Boy’s School-life in France. By the author of

“The Story of Colette.” With 86 Illustrations by Edouard Zier. 320 pages.

8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

“It is long since we have encountered a story for children

which we can recommend more cordially. It is good all through

and in every respect.”—_Charleston News and Courier._

“A healthful tale of a French school-boy who suffers the

usual school-boy persecution, and emerges from his troubles a

hero. The illustrations are bright, and well drawn, and the

translation is excellently done.”—_Boston Commercial Bulletin._

“A real story-book of the sort which is difficult to lay down,

having once begun it. It is fully illustrated and handsomely

bound.”—_Buffalo Courier._

“The story is one of exceptional merit, and its delightful

interest never flags.”—_Chicago Herald._

ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF “COLETTE.”

_THE STORY OF COLETTE_, a new, large-paper edition. With 36

Illustrations. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

The great popularity which this book has attained in its smaller form

has led the publishers to issue an illustrated edition, with thirty-six

original drawings by Jean Claude, both vignette and full-page.

“This is a capital translation of a charming novel. It is

bright, witty, fresh, and humorous. ‘The Story of Colette’ is

a fine example of what a French novel can be, and all should

be.”—_Charleston News and Courier._

“Colette is French and the story is French, and both are

exceedingly pretty. The story is as pure and refreshing as the

innocent yet sighing gayety of Colette’s life.”—_Providence

Journal._

“A charming little story, molded on the simplest lines,

thoroughly pure, and admirably constructed. It is told with a

wonderful lightness and raciness. It is full of little skillful

touches, such as French literary art at its best knows so well

how to produce. It is characterized by a knowledge of human

nature and a mastery of style and method which indicate that it

is the work rather of a master than of a novice.... Whoever the

author of ‘Colette’ may be, there can be no question that it is

one of the prettiest, most artistic, and in every way charming

stories that French fiction has been honored with for a long

time.”—_New York Tribune._

_LOVE SONGS OF ENGLISH POETS, 1500-1800._ With Notes by RALPH H. CAINE.

16mo. Cloth.

In this collection the editor has carefully culled the rarest flowers

from the rich fields of English poetry, and has produced a volume which

is a singularly delicate and perfect expression of the universal passion

in verse. To find all that is contained in this volume it would be

necessary to search the pages of many books.

“Is it not a little singular that, amid the many treasuries

of poetry which have been published with so much acceptance

during the last five-and-twenty years, there have been so

few devoted to the poetry of love? This is the consideration

which emboldens me in putting forth the present volume. Its

scope is limited, and even within its limits its possibilities

are circumscribed. A body of English love-poetry from the

earliest times to the present has appeared to me too great for

representation within the space of a single volume. I have

therefore contented myself with the fullest selection possible,

down to the beginning of the present century.... Of lovers of

every mood and variety, examples will be found in these pages.

There are the true lover and the false lover, the constant

lover and the jealous lover, the quiet lover and the boisterous

lover, the merry lover and the mournful lover, the humble lover

and the conceited lover, the admiring lover and the pressing

lover. We have the lover before marriage and the lover after

marriage....”—_From the Introduction._

“An admirable selection.”—_London Athenæum._

“From the stores of some three centuries much poetic treasure

of the first order in art is forthcoming.”—_London Saturday

Review._

ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF

_AN ATTIC PHILOSOPHER IN PARIS; or, A Peep at the World from a

Garret._ Being the Journal of a Happy Man. By ÉMILE SOUVESTRE. With 39

Illustrations by JEAN CLAUDE. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50.

The great popularity of “An Attic Philosopher in Paris,” by ÉMILE

SOUVESTRE, has led the publishers to prepare this fine illustrated

edition, uniform with the illustrated edition of “Colette.” For this

volume a large number of full-page and vignette illustrations have been

made by the French artist JEAN CLAUDE, the illustrator of “Colette.” A

rich binding has been specially designed, and this volume, considering

the fine literary quality of the text and the daintiness of the book’s

appearance, will be found to possess a permanent value.

“A delightful bit of French sentiment. The poor and unfortunate

are represented as making the best of their miserable

surroundings, helping each other with unselfish zeal, and

a rose-colored light is thrown over many a disagreeable

situation. The tone is wholesome and helpful, and many

passages are full of pathos. There is, too, an enthusiasm

for country, for the growth and glory of France, which is

charming.”—_Portland Transcript._

“From his loophole of retreat in a garret the philosopher

peeps at the world and moralizes wisely, in a spirit of

gentle humanity, and without a touch of cynicism. A very

bright and wholesome piece of writing, and well worth the

translating.”—_Christian Register._

“Made up of simple incidents and observations growing

therefrom, the attic philosopher finds plenty of material

on which to train his pretty sentiments like vines upon a

trellis.... Humanity will suffer nothing by the perusal of this

little book.”—_Chicago Evening Journal._

_THE HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF POETRY._ Edited by CHARLES A. DANA. Entirely new

edition, from new type, with nearly two hundred additional poems. Steel

engravings. Square 8vo. Cloth, gilt, $5.00.

“When the first edition of ‘The Household Book of Poetry’ was

published by Mr. Dana in 1857, no other collection could so

much as aspire to rival it. Since then we have had Bryant’s

collection and Emerson’s collection, both by poets of fame,

and both presumably eclipsing the effort of a writer who is

not, so far as the world knows, a poet. Nevertheless Mr.

Dana’s collection remains the best of the three. The book

deservedly keeps the lead in popular favor which it took at the

start.”—_New York Times._

“Every intelligent reader and student of poetry has of course

his own favorites, but we are safe in saying that no popular

anthology is so well calculated as this to gratify and instruct

the general public, or to provide for the genuine lover of

verse so much that is good and worthy of preservation.”—_Boston

Traveller._

“Mr. Dana has added nearly two hundred poems to his

well-arranged collection, including many short poems by authors

who have not published volumes. The collection now includes

eleven hundred and seventy-five selections from three hundred

and seventy-seven authors, eighty-five of whom are Americans,

and fifty-two women. This edition gives a list of authors, a

list of the poems, and an index of first lines, and is printed

with new type.”—_New York World._

_FIFTY PERFECT POEMS._ A Collection of Fifty Acknowledged Masterpieces,

by English and American Poets, selected and edited by CHARLES A. DANA

and ROSSITER JOHNSON. With Seventy Original Illustrations from Drawings

by Alfred Fredericks, Frank Millet, Will Low, T. W. Dewing, W. T.

Smedley, F. O. C. Darley, Swain Gifford, Harry Fenn, Appleton Brown,

William Sartain, Arthur Quartley, J. D. Woodward, Walter Satterlee, S. G.

McCutcheon, and J. E. Kelley. The illustrations are printed on Japanese

silk paper, and mounted on the page. The volume is bound in silk. Large

8vo. $10.00.

“The title of this volume may perhaps appear a little

audacious to those who recall Pope’s familiar dictum as to the

impossibility of a faultless piece. In the absolute sense of

the term there is, of course, no perfect poem, because there

is no perfect thing of any kind. But as every art has its

limitations, in whatsoever work the imperfections are caused

by these limitations alone, the artist may fairly be said to

have succeeded to perfection. On this principle the poems here

collected have been chosen.”—_From Preface._

_POEMS._ By WILLIAM E. H. LECKY, author of “The History of England in the

Eighteenth Century.” 18mo. White vellum, stamped in gold. $1.00.

Only the personal friends of the eminent historian have known his verses,

and this is his first public appearance as a poet.

GEORGE H. ELLWANGER’S BOOKS.

_THE GARDEN’S STORY; or, Pleasures and Trials of an Amateur Gardener._

With Head and Tail Pieces by Rhead. 12mo. Cloth, extra, $1.50.

“One of the most charming books of the season.... This little

volume, printed in excellent taste, is redolent of garden

fragrance and garden wisdom.... It is in no sense a text-book,

but it combines a vast deal of information with a great deal

of out-of-door observation, and exceedingly pleasant and

sympathetic writing about flowers and plants.”—_Christian

Union._

“This dainty nugget of horticultural lore treats of the

pleasures and trials of an amateur gardener. From the time

when daffodils begin to peer and the ‘secret of the year’

comes in to mid-October, Mr. Ellwanger provides an outline of

hardy flower-gardening that can be carried on and worked upon

by amateurs.... A little chapter on ‘Warm Weather Wisdom’ is

a presentment of the cream of English literature. Nor is the

information of this floral calendar confined to the literary

or theoretical sides. ‘Plant thickly; it is easier and more

profitable to raise flowers than weeds,’ is a practical

direction from the garden syllabus.”—_Philadelphia Public

Ledger._

“A dainty, learned, charming, and delightful book.”—_New York

Sun._

“The book has the flavor of leisure and culture that belonged

to such work in the last century, and its dainty form and

attractive head and tail pieces add to its charm.”—_San

Francisco Chronicle._

_THE STORY OF MY HOUSE._ With an Etched Frontispiece by Sidney L. Smith,

and numerous Head and Tail Pieces by W. C. Greenough. 12mo. Cloth, extra,

$1.50.

“An essay on the building of a house, with all its

kaleidoscopic possibilities in the way of reform, and its

tantalizing successes before the fact, is always interesting;

and the author is not niggardly in the good points he means

to secure. It is but natural to follow these with a treatise

on rugs full of Orientalism and enthusiasm; on the literary

den and the caller, welcome or otherwise; on the cabinets

of porcelain, the rare editions on the shelves, the briefly

indicated details of the spoils of the chase in their proper

place; on the greenhouse, with its curious climate and

wonderful botany and odors, about which the author writes

with unusual charm and precision; on the dining-room and the

dinner.... The book aims only to be agreeable; its literary

flavor is pervasive, its sentiment kept well in hand.”—_New

York Evening Post._

“When the really perfect book of its class comes to a

critic’s hands, all the words he has used to describe fairly

satisfactory ones are inadequate for his new purpose, and he

feels inclined, as in this case, to stand aside and let the

book speak for itself. In its own way, it would be hardly

possible for this daintily printed volume to do better.”—_Art

Amateur._

_IN GOLD AND SILVER._ With many Illustrations. 16mo. Cloth, $2.00. Also,

limited _édition de luxe_, on Japanese vellum, $5.00.

In this volume the author carries the reader from the Orient to the

outdoor life of our own country, of which he is so competent to speak.

“In Gold and Silver” has been magnificently illustrated by two of the

foremost American artists, W. Hamilton Gibson and A. B. Wenzell, who have

furnished full-page drawings, vignettes, and initials; while there are

several pen-and-ink drawings of Oriental articles by W. C. Greenough, and

a specially designed title-page and cover by H. B. Sherwin. Altogether,

this book may safely be called one of the best examples of fine

book-making produced in recent years.

_THE LAST WORDS OF THOMAS CARLYLE._ Including _Wotton Reinfred_,

Carlyle’s only essay in fiction; the _Excursion (Futile Enough) to

Paris_; and letters from Thomas Carlyle, also letters from Mrs. Carlyle

to a personal friend. With Portrait. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.75.

“‘Wotton Reinfred’ is interesting as a historical document.

It gives Carlyle before he had adopted his peculiar manner,

and yet there are some characteristic bits—especially at the

beginning—in the Sartor Resartus vein. I take it that these

are reminiscences of Irving and of the Thackeray circle, and

there is a curious portrait of Coleridge, not very thinly

veiled. There is enough autobiography, too, of interest in its

way.”—LESLIE STEPHEN.

“No complete edition of the Sage of Chelsea will be able to

ignore these manuscripts.”—_Pall Mall Gazette._

_MEN, MINES, AND ANIMALS IN SOUTH AFRICA._ By Lord RANDOLPH S. CHURCHILL.

With Portrait, Sixty-five Illustrations, and a Map. 8vo. 337 pages.

Cloth, $5.00.

“Lord Randolph Churchill’s pages are full of diversified

adventures and experience, from any part of which interesting

extracts could be collected.... A thoroughly attractive

book.”—_London Telegraph._

_AN ENGLISH MAN IN PARIS. Notes and Recollections._ Two volumes in one.

12mo. Cloth, $2.00.

This work gives an intimate and most entertaining series of pictures of

life in Paris during the reigns of Louis Philippe and Louis Napoleon. It

contains personal reminiscences of the old Latin Quarter, the Revolution

of 1848, the _coup d’état_, society, art, and letters during the Second

Empire, the siege of Paris, and the reign of the Commune. The author

enjoyed the acquaintance of most of the celebrities of this time; and

he describes Balzac, Alfred de Musset, Sue, the elder Dumas, Taglioni,

Flaubert, Auber, Félicien David Delacroix, Horace Vernet, Decamps,

Guizot, Thiers, and many others, whose appearance in these pages is the

occasion for fresh and interesting anecdotes. This work may well be

described as a volume of inner history written from an exceptionally

favorable point of view.

“... The reader of these volumes will not marvel more at the

unfailing interest of each page than at the extraordinary

collection of eminent persons whom the author all his life

knew intimately and met frequently. A list would range from

Dumas the elder to David the sculptor, from Rachel to Balzac,

from Louis Napoleon to Eugène Delacroix, from Louis Philippe

to the Princess Demidoff, and from Lola Montez to that other

celebrated woman, Alphonsine Plessis, who was the original of

the younger Dumas’s ‘Dame aux Caméllias.’ He knew these persons

as no other Englishman could have known them, and he writes

about them with a charm that has all the attraction of the most

pleasing conversation.”—_New York Times._

“We have rarely happened upon more fascinating volumes than

these Recollections.... One good story leads on to another;

one personality brings up reminiscences of another, and we

are hurried along in a rattle of gayety.... We have heard

many suggestions hazarded as to the anonymous author of these

memoirs. There are not above three or four Englishmen with whom

it would be possible to identify him. We doubted still until

after the middle of the second volume we came upon two or three

passages which strike us as being conclusive circumstantial

evidence.... We shall not seek to strip the mask from the

anonymous.”—_London Times._

New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.