Little by little, lulled by the whispering of her father; refreshed, as if bathed in such admirable tenderness, she fell asleep. Her father held her in his arms, and, raising his eyes, he prayed.
Day has come. The aurora awakes in its humid splendor, and throws its first rays over the mountain violets. The bells of the town dance into the air their clear and joyous notes.
"My father," said Paganina in a low voice, and without opening her eyes, "what do those bells say? Their ringing sound makes me tremble with joy."
"My daughter, they celebrate, as they may, the day of the Ascension, when Christ ascended into heaven."
"To heaven! my father;" and she added, in so weak a voice that he could scarcely hear her, "It seems that I am there now—that I repose in your arms."
The organist looked at his daughter, whose closed eyes seemed to enjoy interior contemplation; while his pale face expressed his delight. He raised her; held her up, as if to offer her to God; then laid her quietly on her little bed, and let her sleep.
XV.
From that day, the organist possessed perfect control over his daughter. If she seemed disposed to escape from his influence, he recalled the night of the Ascension, and that sufficed. Paganina was still a little girl; but soon she would cease to be one. Her future beauty was crystallizing. The features could be seen; but they had not yet blended into their after harmony. There was something surprising about her.
Morally, the incomprehensible little creature was all dissonance and violent contrasts, promising to be equally powerful for good or evil, as she should be led by superior or inferior influences.
The distinctive character of her nature, habitually concentrated and sometimes impetuous to excess, was her passion for every thing beautiful. Music exercised an extraordinary influence over her. It was, properly speaking, her language; and she understood in it what others could not. Already she spoke in it wonderfully.