To which the gentle hand of Teresa now added, “if unshared by affection”—and a kiss, deposited by Charney upon her lovely cheek, seemed to confirm her emendation.
The Count was come to request Ludovico would stand godfather to his first-born child, which was to make its appearance before the close of the year; and, the object of their mission accomplished, the young couple proceeded to Turin, where, in his beautiful villa, Girardi was awaiting their return.
There, in a garden closely adjoining his own apartment, in the centre of a rich parterre, warmed and brightened by the beams of the setting sun, Charney had deposited his beloved plant, out of reach of all danger or obstruction. By his especial order, no hand but his own was to minister to her culture. He alone was to watch over Picciola. It was an occupation, a duty, a tax eternally adopted by his gratitude.
How quickly—how enchantingly did his days now glide along! In the midst of exquisite gardens, on the banks of a beautiful stream, under an auspicious sky, Charney was the happiest of the human kind! Time imparted only additional strength to the ties in which he had enchained himself; as the ivy cements and consolidates the wall it embraces. The friendship of Girardi, the tenderness of Teresa, the attachment of all who resided under his roof, conspired to form his happiness, perfected at the happy moment when he heard himself saluted as a father.
Charney’s affection for his son soon seemed to rival that he bore his young and lovely wife. He was never weary of contemplating and adoring them, and could scarcely make up his mind to lose sight of them for a moment. And lo! when Ludovico Ritti arrived from Fenestrella to fulfil his promise to the Count, and proceeded to visit, in the first instance, his original god-daughter—the god-daughter of the prison—he found that amid all this domestic happiness—all these transports of joy and affection—all the rapture and prosperity brightening the home of the Count and Countess de Charney, Picciola had been forgotten—La povera Picciola had died of neglect, unnoticed and unlamented. The appointed task was over. The herb of grace had nothing farther to unfold to the happy husband, father, and believer!
THE END.