Impressed by the animation of her gestures, a respondent smile played upon the lips of the Emperor; but that smile, alas! was an exclusive tribute to the attractions and excellencies of his wife!
CHAPTER VI.
During this tedious interval, the unhappy Charney was counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds, with the utmost impatience: he felt as if the minutest divisions of time were maliciously heaping themselves together, to weigh down the head of his devoted flower!
Two days had now elapsed. The messenger brought back no tidings; and even the venerable Girardi was growing uneasy, and beginning to deduce evil auguries from the absence of his daughter. Hitherto, however, he had not named his messenger to the Count; and, while trying to awaken hope in the heart of his companion, experienced the mortification of hearing accusations against the zeal and fidelity of the person to whom the mission had been intrusted. Girardi could no longer refrain from accusing himself in secret of having hazarded the safety of his child. “Teresa, my daughter, my dear daughter!” he exclaimed, amid the stillness of his gloomy chamber, “what—what has become of you?” And, lo! the third day came, and no Teresa made her appearance.
When the fourth arrived, Girardi had not strength to show himself at the window. Charney could not even catch a glimpse of his fellow-prisoner; but had he lent a more attentive ear, he might, perhaps, have overheard the supplications, broken by sobs, addressed to Heaven by the poor old man, for the safety of his only child. A dark veil of misery seemed suddenly to have overspread that little spot; where, but a short time before, in spite of the absence of liberty, cheerfulness and contentment diffused their enlivening sunshine.
The very plant was progressing rapidly to its last; and Charney found himself compelled to watch over the dying moments of his Picciola. He had now a double cause for affliction: a dread of losing the object of his attachment, and of having degraded himself by useless humiliation—if he should have humbled himself in the dust, only to be repulsed from the footstool of the usurper.
As if the whole world were in a conspiracy against him, Ludovico, formerly so kind, so communicative, so genuine, seemed unwilling now to address to him a single word. Taciturn and morose, the jailer came and went, passed through the court, or returned by the winding staircase, with his pipe in his mouth, as if to avoid uttering a syllable. He seemed to have taken a spite against the affliction of his captive. The fact was, that from the moment the refusal of the commandant had been made known, the jailer began to prepare for the moment which he foresaw was about to take place before him, the alternative of his duty and his inclination. Duty, he knew, must eventually prevail; and he affected sullenness and brutality, by way of gaining courage for the effort. Such is the custom of persons unrefined by the polish of education. In fulfilling whatever harsh functions may be assigned them, they try to extinguish every generous impulse in their souls, rather than soften them by courtesy of deportment. Poor Ludovico’s goodness of heart was rarely demonstrated in words; and where kindly deeds were interdicted by those in authority over him, his secret compassion usually found vent in surliness towards the very victim exciting his commiseration. If his ill-humour should call forth resentment, so much the better: his duty became all the easier. War is indispensable between victim and executioner, prisoner and jailer.