“The Count de Charney is a madman,” exclaimed the Emperor, after most deliberate examination; “a visionary and a madman; but not the dangerous person represented to me. He who could submit his powers of mind to the influence of a sorry weed, may have in him the making of an excellent botanist, but not of a conspirator. He is pardoned! Let his estates be restored to him, that he may cultivate there, unmolested, his own fields, and his taste for natural history.”
Need it be added that the Count did not loiter at Fenestrella after receiving this welcome intelligence; or that he did not quit the fortress alone? but, transplanted into a solid case, filled with good earth, Picciola made her triumphal exit from her gloomy birth-place—Picciola, to whom he owed his life—nay, more than life—his insight into the wondrous works of God, and the joys resulting from peace and good-will towards mankind—Picciola, by whom he has been betrayed into the toils of love—Picciola, through whose influence, finally, he is released from bondage!
As Charney was about to cross the drawbridge of the citadel, a rude hand was suddenly extended towards him. “Eccellenza!” said Ludovico, repressing his rising emotion, “give us your hand! we may be friends now that you are going away—now that you are about to leave us—now that we shall see your face no more! Thank Heaven, we may be friends!”
Charney heartily embraced him. “We shall meet again, my good Ludovico,” cried he; “I promise you that you do not see me for the last time.” And, having shaken both the hands of the jailer again and again with the utmost cordiality, the Count quitted the fortress.
After his carriage had traversed the esplanade, and left far behind the mountain on which the citadel is situated, crossed the bridge over the Clusone, and attained the Suza road, a voice still continued crying aloud from the ramparts, “Addio, Signor Conte! Addio, addio, Picciola!”
Six months afterwards, a rich equipage stopped at the gate of the state prison of Fenestrella; from which alighted a traveller inquiring for Ludovico Ritti: the former prisoner was come to pay a visit to his jailer! A young lady, richly attired, was leaning tenderly upon his arm—Teresa Girardi, now Countess de Charney. Together, the young couple visited the little court and the miserable camera, so long the abode of weariness, scepticism, and despair. Of all the sentences which had formerly disfigured the wall, one only had been suffered to remain—
“Learning, wit, beauty, youth, fortune, are insufficient to confer happiness upon man.”