When the dinner hour arrived, Ludovico, finding Charney transfixed in mournful contemplation beside his plant, took care not to present himself in the gay mood with which he was wont to accost the Count; sometimes sportively addressing his god-daughter as “Giovanetta, fanciuletta,” or inquiring after the health of the “Count and Countess;” but, traversing the court in haste, without noticing his prisoner, he pretends to suppose him in the chamber above. By some accidental movement, however, on the part of Charney, Ludovico suddenly found himself face to face with the captive; and was shocked to perceive the change which the lapse of a few days had effected in his countenance. Impatience and anxiety had furrowed his brow, and discoloured his lips, and wasted his cheeks; while the disorder of his hair and beard served to increase the wildness of his aspect. Against his will, Ludovico stood motionless, contemplating these melancholy changes; but, suddenly, calling to mind his previous resolutions, he cast an eye upon the flower, winked ironically, shrugged his shoulders, whistled a lively air, and was about to take his departure, when Charney murmured, in a scarcely recognisable voice, “What injury have I done to you, Ludovico?”
“Me!—done to me! None, that I know of,” replied the jailer, more deeply touched than he cared to show, by the plaintiveness of this apostrophe.
“In that case,” said the Count, advancing towards him and seizing him by the hand, “be still my friend! Aid me while there is yet time! I have found means of evading all objections! The commandant can have no farther scruples—nay, he need not know a word of the matter. Procure me only a box of earth—we will gently raise the stones for a moment and transplant the flower——”
“Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!” interrupted Ludovico, drawing back his hand. “The devil take the gilly-flower, for aught I care! She has done mischief enough already; beginning with yourself, who are about, I see, to have another fit of illness. Better make a pitcher of tisane of her before ’tis too late.”
Charney replied by an eloquent glance of scorn and indignation.
“If it were only yourself who had to suffer,” resumed Ludovico, “you would have yourself to thank, and there would be an end on’t. But there is a poor old man, whom you have deprived of his daughter; for Signor Girardi will see no more of his unhappy Teresa.”
“Deprived of his daughter!” cried the Count, his eyes dilating with horror, “how?—in what manner?”
“Ay! how? in what manner?” pursued the jailer, setting down his basket of provisions, and taking the attitude of one about to administer a harsh reprimand. “People lay the whip to the horses, and pretend to wonder when the carriage rolls on. People let fly the stiletto, and pretend to wonder when blood flows from the wound. Trondidio! O che frascheria! You choose to write to the Emperor—’twas your own affair: you wrote. Well and good! You infringed the discipline of the prison, and the commandant will find ’tis time to punish you. Well and good again. But, because you must needs have a trusty messenger to convey your unlucky letter, nothing less would serve you than to employ the povera damigella on your fool’s errand!”