“Dearest father,” wrote Teresa, “bestow a thousand kisses upon the paper you hold in your hands; for a thousand and a thousand have I impressed upon it, as harvest for your venerated lips!”
“What joy for us both, this renewal of correspondence! It is to General Menon we are indebted for the concession; he it is who has put an end to a silence which, even more than distance, seemed to keep us asunder. Blessings be upon him! Now, dear father, our thoughts, at least, may fly towards each other. I shall communicate my hopes to sustain your courage; you, your griefs, in weeping over which I shall fancy I am weeping in your presence! But if a greater happiness, dearest father, were in reserve for us! For a moment, I beseech you, lay aside my letter, and summon your strength to hear the sudden joy I am about to excite in your bosom. Father! if I were once more permitted to be with you! to approach you—to listen to your instruction—to surround you with my attentions! Throughout the two years in which we enjoyed this alleviation of our affliction, captivity seemed to sit lightly on your spirits; and I entertain the hope—yes, the earnest, earnest hope, that the favour will be again vouchsafed me—that I shall be once more permitted to enter your prison!”
“Teresa about to visit you! here in the fortress!” cried Charney, wild with joy.
“Read on!” replied the old man, in a melancholy tone—“read on!”
“I shall be once more permitted to enter your prison,” resumed Charney, repeating the last sentence. “Are you not happy in such a prospect? Are you not overjoyed?” continued Teresa. “Pause a moment, to consider the good tidings I have thus announced! Do not hurry on towards the conclusion of my letter. Violent emotions are sometimes dangerous. Have I not already said enough? Were an angel to descend from heaven, charged with the accomplishment of our wishes, you would not presume to require more; but I, your child, might venture, ere he reascended to his native skies, I might be tempted to implore your liberation from captivity. At your age, father, it is a cruel thing to be denied the sight of your native country. The banks of our beloved Doria are so beautiful; and in our gardens on the Collina, the trees planted by my poor mother and brother have acquired surprising growth during your absence. There, more than on any other spot, survives the precious memory of those we have lost.
“Then, father, there are your friends—the friends who have supported, by their generous efforts, my applications to government. I am sure you regret your absence from them; I am sure you would delight in seeing them again. Oh! father, father! the pen seems to burn in my hand! My secret is about to escape me! It has, probably, already escaped me! You have, doubtless, summoned all your courage to learn definitively that, in a few days, I am about to rejoin you, not to lend my aid in softening your captivity, but to announce its termination; not to be with you at stated hours, and within the walls of a prison; but to carry you away with me in triumph from Fenestrella—free, proud—ay, proud—for you have now a right to resume your pride. Your faithful friends, Cotenna and Delarue, did not rest till they obtained, not your pardon, but your justification. Yes, your innocence is fully recognised by the imperial government.
“Farewell, dearest and best of fathers. How I love you! how happy do I feel at this moment! and how much happier shall I be when again folded in your arms! Your own
“Teresa.”
The letter did not contain a single word in reference to Charney. That word—that hoped-for word—how eagerly did he seek for it in every page and line—how eagerly, and how vainly! Yet, notwithstanding his disappointment, it was a cry of joy that burst from the lips of the Count, when he concluded the letter.
“You will soon be free!” cried he; “soon able to rest under the shadow of green trees, and behold the rising of the sun!”