While all this was proceeding undreamed of by the two captives, Charney and Girardi sat enjoying on their bench a glorious October sunshine, restoring, or rather forestalling around them, the warmth and promise of spring. Both were pensive and silent, leaning severally on the opposite arms which closed in the rustic seat. They might have passed for being estranged or indifferent to each other, but for the wistful looks cast from time to time by Charney upon his companion, who was absorbed in a profound reverie. It was not often that the countenance of Girardi was overshadowed by sadness—no wonder, therefore, that the Count should mistake the motives of his depression.
“Yes!” cried he, replying, as he fancied, to the looks of his friend; “captivity is, indeed, a purgatory! To be imprisoned for an imaginary offence—to live apart from all we love.”
But ere he could proceed, Girardi, raising his head, gazed with surprise upon the Count. “True, my dear friend!” he replied; “separation is one of the severest trials of human fortitude!”
“I your friend!” interrupted Charney, with bitterness. “Have you the charity to bestow such a name upon me—upon me, who am the cause of your being parted from her? for it is of your daughter you are thinking! Deny it not! Teresa is the object of these mournful meditations; and, at such a moment, how odious must I be in your sight!”
“Believe me, you are mistaken in your conjectures,” mildly interrupted the venerable man. “Never was the image of my daughter invested with such consolatory associations as to-day. For Teresa has written to me. I have received a letter from my child.”
“Written to you—you have a letter from her—they have suffered it to reach your hands!” cried Charney, insensibly drawing nearer to his companion. Then checking his exultation, he added, “But you have, doubtless, learned some afflicting tidings?”
“Far from it, I assure you.”
“Wherefore, then, this depression?”
“Alas! my dear friend, such is the frailty of human nature; such is the mingled yarn of human destiny! A regret is sure to embitter our sweetest hopes. The happiness of this life casts its shadow before, and it is by the shadow that our attention is first attracted. You spoke of separation from those we love. Here is my letter! read it, and learn what considerations depress my spirits while seated by your side.”
Charney took the letter, and for some moments held it unopened in his hand; his eyes fixed on the countenance of Girardi, he seemed desirous of reading there the intelligence it contained. On examining the address he recognised with emotion the handwriting of his precious billet; and at length unfolding the paper, attempted to read aloud the contents. But his voice faltered—the words expired upon his lips; and stopping short, he concluded the letter almost inaudibly to himself.