Garoffi, who did not perceive us in his confusion, approached the bed, forcing himself not to cry; and the old man caressed him, but could not speak.
“Thanks,” said the old man; “go and tell your father and mother that all is going well, and that they are not to think any more about it.”
But Garoffi did not move, and seemed to have something to say which he dared not utter.
“What have you to say to me? What is it that you want?”
“I!—Nothing.”
“Well, good by, until we meet again, my boy; go with your heart in peace.”
Garoffi went as far as the door; but there he halted, turned to the nephew, who was following him, and gazed curiously at him. All at once he pulled some object from beneath his cloak, put it in the boy’s hand, and whispered hastily to him, “It is for you,” and away he went like a flash.
The boy carried the object to his uncle; we saw that on it was written, I give you this; we looked inside, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. It was the famous album, with his collection of postage-stamps, which poor Garoffi had brought, the collection of which he was always talking, upon which he had founded so many hopes, and which had cost him so much trouble; it was his treasure, poor boy! it was the half of his very blood, which he had presented in exchange for his pardon.