Charney had not the heart to resent these tumultuous ecstasies of his worthy keeper. The idea of being indebted for his life to the agency of the feeble favourite, which had embellished his days of health, insensibly brought a smile to his still feverish lips. But a vague apprehension oppressed his feelings.
“In what way, my good Ludovico, did you manage to apply your remedy?” said he, faintly.
“Faith! easily enough! A pint of scalding water poured upon the leaves” (Charney bit his lips with anxiety), “in a close kettle, which, after a turn or two over the stove, furnished the decoction.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Count, falling back on his pillow, and pressing his hand to his forehead. “You have then destroyed the plant! I must not reproach you, Ludovico; you did it for the best. And yet, my poor Picciola! What will become of me, now I have lost my little companion!”
“Come, come! compose yourself!” answered Ludovico, assuming the paternal tone of a father comforting his child for the loss of a favourite plaything. “Compose yourself, and do not expose your limbs to cold, by throwing off your clothes in this way. Listen to reason!” he continued, disposing the covering round the person of his patient. “Was I to hesitate between the life of a gilly-flower and the life of a man? Certainly not! ’Twould have been a sin—a murder!”
Charney groaned heavily.
“However, I hadn’t the heart to plunge the poor thing head foremost into the smoking kettle. I thought a loan might do as well as total pillage; so, with my wife’s scissors, I snipped off leaves enough for a strong infusion (sparing the buds; for the jade has now three flower-buds for her top-knot), and though her foliage is a little the thinner, I’ve a notion the plant will not suffer from thinning. Picciola will, perhaps, be the better for the job, as well as her master. So now, be prudent, eccellenza! only be prudent, and all will go by clock-work at Fenestrella.”
Charney, directing a glance of grateful affection towards his jailer, extended towards him a hand which, this time, Ludovico felt himself privileged to accept; for the eyes of the Count were moistened by tears of emotion. But suddenly recollecting himself, and angry with his own infraction of the rule he had traced for his conduct towards those committed to his charge, the muscles of Ludovico’s dark face contracted, and he resumed his harsh, surly, every-day tone. Though still holding within his own the hand of his prisoner, he affected to give a professional turn to his attitude.
“See!” cried he, “in spite of my injunctions, you still persist in uncovering yourself. Remember, sir, I am responsible for your recovery!”
And, after further remonstrances, made in the dry tone of office, Ludovico quitted the room, murmuring to the accompaniment of his rattling keys, the burden of his favourite song: