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.”