“Heaven’s mercy be praised!” ejaculated the old man: “for Heaven itself has inspired this victory over the instigations of sinful human pride! Yes—write! let your petition for pardon be worded in proper form; and my friends Fossombroni, Cotenna, and Delarue, will support it with all their interest, with Marescalchi, the minister, with Cardinal Caprara, and even with Melzi, who has just been appointed chancellor of the new kingdom. Who knows? We may perhaps quit Fenestrella on the same day! you to recommence a life of usefulness and activity—I, to follow the gentle guidance of my daughter.”
“Nay, sir—nay,” cried the Count. “Forgive me if I decline the protection to which your good-will would generously recommend me. It is to the Emperor in person that my memorial must be remitted—to-night, or early in the morning. Do you answer to me for a messenger?”
“I do,” said the old man, firmly, after a momentary pause.
“One question more,” added Charney. “Is there no chance of your being compromised by the service you are so kind as to render me?”
“The pleasure of being of use to you leaves me no leisure for apprehension,” answered Girardi. “Let me but lend my aid to the alleviation of your afflictions, and I am content. Should evil arise, I know how to submit to the decrees of Providence.”
Charney was deeply touched by these simple expressions. Tears glistened in his eyes as he raised them towards the good old man.
“What would I give to press your hand!” cried he; and he stretched out his arm with the utmost effort, in hopes to reach the grated window, while Girardi extended his between the bars. But it was all in vain. A movement of mutual sympathy was the utmost that could pass between them.
When Charney took leave of Picciola, on his way to his chamber, he could not refrain from whispering, “Courage! I shall save thee yet!” And, having reached his miserable camera, he selected the whitest of his remaining handkerchiefs, mended his tooth-pick with the greatest care, made up a fresh supply of ink, and set to work. When his memorial was completed, which was not without a thousand pangs of wounded pride, a little cord descended from the grating of Girardi’s window, to which the paper was attached by the Count, and carefully drawn up.