“No,” replied Charney; “I forbid you.”
“You forbid me!” cried the jailer. “D——e! is it your orders I am to obey? If I choose to speak to him, who is to prevent me?”
“Ludovico!”
“Set your mind at ease; I am not going to undertake any such fool’s errand. What business is it of mine? Let her live, let her die; che m’ importa? If you want to put an end to the plant, ’tis your own affair—Buona notte!”
“But has your commandant sense enough to understand me?” demanded the Count, detaining him.
“Why not? do you take him for a kinserlick? Tell him your story straight on end: pack it into pretty little sentences, like a scholar who knows what he is about; for now’s the time to put your learning to some use. Why shouldn’t he enter into your love for a flower as well as I have? Besides, I shall be there to put in a word. I can tell him what a capital tisane is to be made of the herb. The commandant’s an ailing man himself. He has got a sharp fit of the rheumatism upon him at this very moment, which will perhaps make him enter into the case.”
Charney still hesitated; but Ludovico pointed with one of his knowing winks to Picciola, sick and suffering; and, with a gesture of anxiety from the Count, off went the jailer on his errand.
Some minutes afterwards, a man in a half-military, half-civil uniform, made his appearance in the court, with an inkstand and a sheet of paper bearing a government stamp. As Ludovico had announced, this person remained present while Charney wrote out his petition; and received it sealed into his hands, and, with a respectful bow, departed, carrying off the inkstand.
Reader, despise not the self-abasement of the haughty Count de Charney, marvel not at the readiness with which he has consented to an act of humiliation. Remember that Picciola is all in all to the poor prisoner. Reflect upon the influence of isolation on the firmest mind, the proudest spirit. Had he recourse to submission when himself oppressed with suffering, pining after the free air of liberty, overpowered by the walls of his dungeon, as Picciola by its pavement? No! for his own woes the Count had fortitude; but between himself and his favourite, a league of mutual obligation subsists—sacred enjoyments have arisen. Picciola preserved his life; must her own be sacrificed to his self-love?