“To my daughter—doubtless to my daughter,” replied Girardi. “Every consolation of my life reaches me through the hands of my Teresa.”
“Do you know this handwriting?” inquired Charney, drawing from his casket the slip of paper he so dearly treasured.
“It is Teresa’s!” cried Girardi; “it is the writing of my child! She has not neglected us; nor have her promises been tardy in their accomplishment. But how did this letter reach your hands?”
The Count related all the circumstances, then carelessly put forth his hand to receive back the slip of paper; but, perceiving that the poor old man silently detained it, perusing it word by word, letter by letter, and raising it a thousand times, with trembling hands, to his lips, he saw that the pledge was lost to him for ever; and experienced a regret at the loss, which appeared almost unbearable.
After the first moments passed in conjectures, concerning Teresa and the spot where she was likely to have taken refuge, Girardi began to examine the lodgings of his new friend; and gravely proceeded to decipher the inscriptions on the wall. Two among them had been already modified; and the old man could readily discern, in this recantation, the influence exercised by Picciola over her votary. One of the maxims of Charney ran as follows: “Mankind maintain, upon the surface of the earth, the position they will one day hold below it—side by side, without a single bond of union. Physically considered, the world is a mob, where millions meet and jostle together: morally speaking, it is a solitary wilderness.”
To this withering sentence, the hand of Girardi added, “Unless to him who has a friend.” Then, turning to his young companion, the old man extended his arms towards him, and a mutual embrace sealed between them a compact of eternal friendship.
Next day, they dined together in the camera of the Count—Charney seated upon the bed, and his venerable guest upon the chair—the sculptured table between them being covered with double rations, viz.: a fine trout from the lake of Avigliano, crayfish from the Cenise, a bottle of excellent Mondovi wine, and a piece of the celebrated Millesimo cheese, known over Italy under the name of rubiola. The feast was a noble one for a prison; but Girardi’s purse was richly replenished, and the commandant willing to sanction every accommodation which Ludovico could afford to the two prisoners, within the letter of his instructions from headquarters.
Never had Charney more thoroughly enjoyed the pleasures of the table. The happiest spirit of social intercourse was already established between them. If exercise, and the waters of the Eurotas, imparted a zest to the black broth of the Lacedæmonians, how much more the presence and conversation of a friend to the flavour of the choice viands of Piedmont!
Their hearts expanded with the sense of enjoyment. Without scruple, without preamble, but as if in fulfilment of the sacred engagements conveyed in their promises of friendship, Charney began to relate the presumptuous studies and idle vanities of his youth; while Girardi, by way of encouragement to this candour, did not hesitate to avow the early errors of his own.