“It was a paroxysm of selfishness, then, which moved this old man to become an assassin?”
“You have never been a father, Signor Conte!” replied the jailer. “Cristo Santo! if my Antonio, who is still a babe, were to eat his first mouthful for the good of this empire of the French (which is a bantling of his own age, or thereabouts), I’d soon—— But basta! I’ve no mind to take up my lodging at Fenestrella, except as it may be with the keys at my girdle or under my pillow.”
“And how does this fierce conspirator amuse himself in prison?” persisted Charney.
“Catching flies!” replied the jailer, with an ironical wink.
Instead of detesting his brother in misfortune, Charney now began to despise him. “A madman, then?” he demanded.
“Perche pazzo, Signor Conte? Though you are the last comer, you excel him already in the art of hacking a table into devices. Pazienza!”
In defiance of the sneer conveyed in the jailer’s remark, Charney soon resumed his manual labors, and the interpretations of his hieroglyphics; but, alas! only to experience anew their insufficiency as a kill-time. His first winter had expired in weariness and discontent: when, by the mercy of Heaven, an unexpected object of interest was assigned him.
