CHAPTER X.
Induced at length to renew his experimental inquiries into the process of inflorescence, Charney became enchanted by the prodigious and immutable congruities of Nature. For some time, indeed, his eyes were baffled by the infinite minuteness of the phenomena to which his attention was directed; when, just as his patience became exhausted by his own incapacity, Ludovico conveyed to him, from his neighbour the fly-catcher, a microscopic lens, with which Girardi had been enabled to number eight thousand oculary facets on the cornea of a fly’s eye.
Charney was transported with joy at the acquisition! The most occult portion of the flower now became manifested for his investigation; and already he fancied himself advancing with gigantic strides in the path of science. Having carefully analyzed the texture of his flower, he convinced himself that the brilliant colours of the petal, their form, their crimson spots, the bands of velvet or satin which adorn their bases or fringe their extremities, are not intended for the mere gratification of the eye, but for the purpose of reflecting, attracting, or modifying the rays of the sun, according to the necessities of the flower during the grand process of fructification. The polished crowns or studs of the calyx, lustrous like porcelain, are doubtless glandular masses for the absorption of the air, light, and moisture, indispensable to the formation of the seed: for without light, no colour—without air and moisture, no vitality. Moisture, light, and heat, are the elements of vegetable life, which, on its extinction, it bequeaths in restitution to the universe.
Unknown to Charney, his reveries and studies had attracted two deeply interested spectators: Girardi and his daughter. The latter, educated in habits of piety and seclusion, by a father imbued with reverential religious sentiments, was blessed with one of those ethereal natures in which every good and holy interest seems united. The beauty and excellence of Teresa Girardi, the graces of her person and mind, had not failed to attract admirers; and her deep and expansive sensibility seemed to announce a predisposition for human affections. But if a vague preference had occasionally influenced her feelings amid the fêtes of Turin, every impulse of her gentle heart was now concentrated into grief for the captivity of her father.
Her soul was humbled, her spirits subdued. Two only objects predominated in her heart: her father in prison—her Saviour on the cross; despair on earth, but trust in immortality. Not that the fair daughter of Italy was of a melancholy mind. Her duties were easy to her, her sacrifices a delight; and where tears were to be dried or smiles awaked, there was the place of Teresa: hitherto, she had accomplished this task towards her father only; but from the moment of beholding Charney, his air of depression excited a two-fold compassion in her bosom. A captive like her father, and with her father, a mysterious analogy seemed to unite their destinies. But the Count is even more deserving pity than her father. The Count had no earthly solace remaining but a poor plant; and with what tenderness does he cultivate this last remaining affection! The noble countenance and fine person of the prisoner might, perhaps, unsuspected by Teresa, tend to enhance her compassion; but had she become acquainted with him in his days of splendour, when surrounded by the deceptious attributes of happiness, these would never have sufficed to distinguish him in her eyes. His isolation—his abandonment—his calamity—his resignation, have alone attracted her interest, and prompted the gift of her tenderness and esteem. In her ignorance of men and things, Teresa is induced to include misfortune in her catalogue of virtues.
As bold in pursuance of a good action, as timid in personal deportment, she often directed towards Charney the good offices of her father; and one day when Girardi advanced to the window, instead of contenting himself, as usual, with a salutation of the hand, he motioned to the Count to draw as near as possible to the window; and, having moderated his voice to the lowest pitch, whispered—
“I have good news for you.”