"God will give him back to you."
From that time she believed in God.
Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months passed. At last, early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated.
"Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but not dangerously."
Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved.
[EPILOGUE.]
In the year eighteen hundred and sixty-five a numerous company were reunited at the Albergo della Grotta, where we will finish, as we have begun, our veracious history.
To-day the company assumed a more cheerful aspect than at the first meeting. It was composed only of persons whose appearance denoted wealth or competence. Here were no unfortunates who fainted from want, like poor Ivas, and on whose faces could be seen traces of misery and care.
In the privileged corner of the grotto, near the murmuring fountain, a sumptuous table was set for the most distinguished travellers. Instinctively Firpo, the host, gave their titles in advance to Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse. The choicest wines, the freshest fruits, and a tablecloth whose snowy whiteness was only excelled by the brilliancy of the polished silver knives, forks, and spoons, were for them. The other tables were already occupied by the guests, here singly, there in groups. All belonged to the class usually called aristocratic, who lead an easy and luxurious life.
The day was warm; the blue Italian sky shone in all its splendour. The sea sang its immortal symphony. The trees rustled harmoniously, the laurels exhaled their perfumes, the golden oranges contrasted with the dark green leaves, and the fresh sea-breeze sweetly refreshed the limpid air.