PICCIOLA
BY

X. B. SAINTINE
Translated from

a new edition revised by the author
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
LEOPOLD
FLAMENG,

BOSTON AND N E W YORK

HOUGHTON, M I F F L I N A N D COMPANY

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
HCRD AND HOUGHTON,

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

DEDICATION.

TO MADAME VIRGINIA ANCELOT.
AFTER reading over my book, I tremble to offer i(
to you. And yet who could so well appreciate it as
yourself?
You do not like voluminous novels, nor long dramas. My book is neither a novel nor a drama.
The story which I am going to recount to you,
Madame, is simple, so simple that perhaps never did
pen broach a more limited subject. My heroine is
so little a thing! not that I would beforehand, in case
of failure, throw the fault upon her. God forbid!
If in the work there is little action, the thought is
not devoid of dignity, the aim is lofty, and if I have
not reached it, it is because my strength is insufficient. I am not indifferent, however, to its success,
for I have made it the repository of my most profound eonvictions; and actuated rather by a senti
ment of benevolence than of vanity, I cannot but
believe, although it may be rejected and disdained
by the crowd of ordinary readers, that for some it
may not be without a charm, and for others, not without profit.

i

DEDICATION.

That it is a record of facts, will give it value in
your eyes. To its truthfulness I can certify, and offef
It to you in compensation for whatever else you may
find lacking.
In your memory lives that good and gracious lady,
who died so few months since, the Countess of Charney, whose countenance, though veiled with sadness,
was so striking from the heavenly imprint which it
bore.
Her eye, so pure, so gentle, whose passing glance
was a caress for those she loved, and whose lingering
look caused the heart to dilate with pleasure, and
turn again irresistibly to seek it once more. This
look, ordinarily timid as that. of a young girl, you
have seen brighten, become animated, burn with ardor, and betray all at once sentiments of strength,
energy, and devotion. This look was the woman.
This woman was the most incredible mingling of
sweetness and strength — of timidity and daring.
She was a lioness that a child could quiet with a
word — a dove that could feel a thunder-bolt wkhout
trembling, when her maternal love was called into
action.
Such I knew her, and others had known her long
before me, when the love that moved the springs of
her being was that which she felt first for her father
then for her husband. I delight to speak to you of
this noble creature. The occasions will be too rara
in which I shall be able to do so. But she is not th#
principal heroine of my story.

DEDICATION.

5

In the only visit which you made her at Belleville;
tfhich she had fixed upon as her permanent home, —
for the tomb of her husband was there, (and now
hers also,) — several things seemed to surprise you.
First, the presence of an old white-haired servant
seated by her side at table. You appeared, above
all, astonished in hearing this servant, with manners
brusk and rude, address with the familiar " thee and
thou" the daughter of the Countess, and the young
girl, elegant and refined, and beautiful as her mother
had been, reply to the old man with deference and
respect, even with affection, calling him by the title
of godfather ; in fact, she was his godchild.
' Then perhaps you remember a dried and faded
flower enclosed in a rich medallion, and the expression of sadness that overspread the features of the
t)oor widow, when you questioned her about this
relic. I believe she even left your question without
response. That would have required a long time,
and could not be given to an indifferent listener.
That response I am going to give you now.
Honored with the affection of this admirable
woman, more than once, sitting between her and her
old servant, opposite to this medallion, I have heard
from both of them long and detailed narrations on
the subject of that faded flower, which have deeply
ttioved me. I have been allowed to keep for a long
rime the manuscripts of the Count, his correspondence, and his double Journal in prison, on linen and
$n paper. I have not lacked abundant proofs and
Mstoric documents.

5

DEDICATION

These narrations I have most carefully treasured
in my memory; these manuscripts I have attentively
examined; from the correspondence I have extracted
precious fragments ; from the journal I have drawn
my inspiration; and if I succeed in imparting to your
soul the sentiment which was stirred in mine by all
these souvenirs of the captive, I shall have needlessly trembled for the destiny of my book.
Yet one word. I have retained for my hero liifl
title of Count, at a time when such titles had ceased
to be used. It is because I have always heard him
so called both in French and Italian. In my memory his name and title are one, and together they
have flowed from my pen.
Expect not then, Madame, in this volume the record of events of great importance, or the adventures
of a lover. I have spoken of utility, — but to whom
is a love-story useful ? In this sweet knowledge,
practice is worth more than theory, and each one
has need of his own experience. That experience
each one hastens to acquire for himself, and cares
not to find it in books. The old, having become moralists from necessity, cry in vain, — "Avoid that
rock on which we were once wrecked!" Youth
replies, — " T h e sea on which you have sailed we
too would brave in our turn, and we demand our
right to shipwreck."
There is love in my story; but it is the love of a
toan for
shall I tell you ? N o ! Read, and yoo
irill know.
X. BONIFACE SAINTINE.

PICCIOLA.
BOOK L
CHAPTER I.
CHARLES VERAMONT, Count of Cliarney, whose
name is, doubtless, not yet wholly forgotten by the
learned of our time, and might, if sought, still be
found in the records of the imperial police, was endowed by nature with an uncommon capacity for
study. Unfortunately, his intellect, under scholastic
discipline, had taken a disputatious turn. He was
more used to discussion than to observation, and so
became rather a learned man than a philosopher.
At twenty-five the Count was master of seven languages; but, unlike certain learned polyglots, who
seem to have given themselves the trouble of acquiring foreign tongues for the express purpose of exhibiting their ignorance and emptiness to foreigners, as
Veil as to their own countrymen, — (for one can be
ft dolt in many languages as easily as in one,) —
Charney regarded his acquirements as a linguist
Dnly as preparation for other and higher studies.
While he possessed this body of servants at the
lommand of his intellect, yet each had his duty, his

6

PICC10LA.

special business. With his servants, the Germans,
he engaged in metaphysics; with the English and
Italians, in politics and legislation; with all, in his
tory, which he could investigate to its very origin,
thanks to his Hebrew, his Greek, and his lloman
servants.
Nor, in devoting himself to these serious studies,
did the Count neglect the accessory sciences. But
at length, alarmed at the extent of the vast horizon
which seemed to expand as he advanced, finding
himself stumble at every step in the labyrinth in
which he was involved, weary of the fruitless search
after truth that was never free from doubt, he came
to look upon history as a vast lie, heaped up age
after age, and attempted to reconstruct the edifice
on a surer foundation. He composed a new historical romance, which the learned derided from envy,
and society from ignorance.
Political and legislative science furnished him with
more positive groundwork. But here all Europe
was calling loudly for reform; and when he tried
to point out some of the worst abuses, they seemed
w rooted in the social system, so many destinies
puilt up and riveted on false principles, that he was
disheartened, feeling neither strength of mind nor
^sensibility of heart enough to overturn in other
nations what the tornado of the Revolution had noj
entirely uprooted in his own.
Then, how many men, with as much intelligence
nnd honesty as he, held theories totally opposed U

PICCIOLA.

9

his own. This thought humbled him more than did
the errors of history, and left him in the most painful perplexity.
Metaphysics afforded him a last resource. In that
world of ideas an overthrow appears less alarming,
for ideas may clash without noise in imaginary space
as a German poet has said. The silent thought has
a sounding echo. In the world of metaphysics Charney believed that he would not expose to risk the
peace of mind of his fellow-men, but he lost his own.
The tarther he advanced in the mysteries of the
science, the more deeply he became enveloped in
darkness and confusion. Truth, ever flying at his
approach, vanished even under his step, and mockingly seemed to flicker before his eyes like a will-o'the-wisp, which allures only to mislead. He beheld
it gleaming before him, and it vanished beneath his
gaze, to reappear where he least expected. Untiring
and unyielding, armed with patience, he followed it
with stealthy steps, to seize it in its hiding-place, and
in a flash it was away ; he quickened his pace — at
the first step it had fled. He thought at last he held
it — it was under his hand — in his hand — it had
already slipped through his fingers, dividing and
multiplying itself into a thousand delusive particles.
Twenty rival truths perplexed the horizon of his
mind— false beacons that set his reason at defiance.
After being tossed about between Bossuet and
Spinoza, between atheism and deism — bewildered
tmong spiritualists, sensationalists, animists, ontoio-

10

PICCIOLA.

gists, eclectics, and materialists, he took refuge in
universal scepticism, desperately solving all doubts
by universal negation.
Having set aside the doctrine of innate ideas, and
the revelation of theologians, as well as the opinions
of Leibnitz, Locke, and Kant, Count Charney shut
himself up in gross pantheism, refusing to believe in
one supreme intelligence. The disorder inherent in
creation, the perpetual contradictions between ideas
and things, the unequal distribution of strength and
fortune among mankind, fixed in his mind the conviction that blind matter alone had created all, and
alone organized and directed all.
Chance became his God, annihilation the object
of his hope. He adopted his new creed with rapture, almost with triumph, as if he had himself created it, thinking himself happy in being freed by a
sweeping incredulity from the doubts with which he
had been besieged.
The death of a relative placed him in possession
of a large fortune. He bade adieu to science, and
determined to live for pleasure alone. Since the
installation of the Consulate, society in France had
been reorganized with its former habits of luxury
%nd splendor. In the midst of the clarion of victory
Which was heard from all quarters at once, Paris
was intoxicated.
Charney entered the world of wealth, the genial
and dazzling world, the world of learning, wit, and
gjrace; then in the midst of this life, at once idle and

PICCIOLA.

11

occupied, in this grand rush for pleasure, he was
filled with surprise that he could not think himself
happy.
To dance at the sound of music, to look upon
the adornment, and breathe the perfume exhaled by
the beautiful women about him, seemed all that was
worthy his attention.
He had sought the companionship of men noted
for their learning and good sense ; but how weak he
found them, ignorant and steeped in error. He could
only pity them.
This is one of the disadvantages of proficiency in
human science; one no longer finds others at his
own level; even those who know as much, know it
in a different way. From the pinnacle to which one
has mounted, those below look small and worthless;
for in the hierarchy of intelligence, as in that oi
power, isolation is born of greatness. To live alone
is the chastisement of whoever will raise himself too
high.
Our philosopher called to his aid sensual pleasures.
In society, which had been so long a stranger to joy
and gayety, and was still defiled by the blood-stained
orgies of the Eevolution, now renewing its life, and
outstripping at the first bound the ostentatious magnificence of the Regency, he signalized himself by
the extravagance of his expenditure and his follies,
•—but all in vain.
He had horses, equipages, an open table; he gave
toncerts, balls, hunting-parties; but failed to secure

12

riCCIOLA.

Pleasure as his guest. He had friends to flatter him
in his triumphs, mistresses to love him in his mo*
ments of leisure, and although he put a high price
on all this, he knew neither friendship nor love.
All this parade, all these parodies of a joyous life
had not the power for a moment to cheer his hear
or force from him a single smile. He endeavored in
vain to allow himself to be blindly caught by the
intoxicating allurements of society. The siren Pleas*
ure, half out of the water, strove to charm the man
by her beauty and her seductive voice, but the unwise
glance of the philosopher plunged also, spite of himself, under the wave, to seek the scaly body and the
forked tail of the monster !
Charney could neither be happy through truth nor
error. To virtue he was a stranger; to vice, indifferent. He had proved the vanity of knowledge,
and the bliss of ignorance was denied him. The7
doors of that Eden were forever closed behind him.
Reason seemed to him false ; pleasure, a liar. Th«
noise of fetes wearied him; solitude and silence wer*
unendurable. In company he was weary of others;
alone, he was weary of himself. A profound sadness
took possession of him.
The demon of philosophical analysis, notwithstanding his efforts to exorcise it, always held dominion
over his thoughts, disenchanting what should charm
his eye, tarnishing, diminishing, and extinguishing
the pleasures and the luxury in which he wished t«
Uve. The praises of his friends were to him only

PICCIOLA.

13

the current coin with which they paid for the por
tion of his fortune which they took from him, and
were only signs of their desire to feast at his
banquets.
Decomposing everything, reducing everything to
its first elements by this same principle of analysis,
he became the prey of a singular malady; a frightful
malady, more common than is known, which attacks
the proud to humiliate them. He fancied that in the
fine cloth of his garments he could detect the tainted
odor of the animal from which the wool was shorn;
under the silk of his rich hangings he saw crawling
the disgusting worm which had spun it; his elegant
furniture, carpets, the binding of his books, his trinkets of mother-of-pearl and of ivory, only suggested
to him the remains and cast-off garments or dwellings of some animal; death ! death! embellished and
made productive by the toil of a squalid artisan.
Illusion was destroyed, imagination paralyzed. But
to him emotion was a necessity. That love which
could find no single object upon which to fix itself,
he expanded to embrace all mankind. He became
(i philanthropist.
To be useful to the men that he despised, he gave
himself up anew to politics; not speculative, but active. He caused himself to be initiated into seere'
societies; he forced himself to feel again the only
*ort of fanaticism that remains for minds which have
»ost all illusions. In short, he became a conspirator;
and against whom ? Against the power of Bonaparte.

14

PICCIOLA.

May it not have been that this patriotic love, this
Universal love which seemed to animate him, after
all, at bottom, was only hatred for one single man,
a man whose glory and success annoyed him ?
Charney, the aristocrat, at last returned to the
principle of equality; the proud nobleman from
whom had been wrested his title of Count, which
he held from his ancestors, did not choose that one
should take with impunity that of Emperor, which
could be held only from the sword.
It matters not what conspiracy this was. There
was no lack of conspiracies at that epoch. I only
know that this one was brooding from 1803 to 1804;
but it was not suffered to break out. The police,
that providence which watched over the destinies of
the future empire, discovered it in time. Government decided to make no noise about it, not even to
give it the honor of a discharge of muskets on the
Plaine de Grenelle, the place of military execution.
The heads of the conspiracy were surprised, seized
in their own houses, condemned almost without trial,
and separately distributed in the prisons, citadels, or
fortresses of the ninety-six departments of consular
France.

CHAPTER II.
I REMEMBEB, when crossing the Alps into Italy, a
tourist, travelling on foot, my knapsack on my shoul
der, and alpenstock in my hand, stopping to gaze
thoughtfully on a torrent near the pass of Rodoretto,
swollen by the melting ice of the upper glaciers.
The noise of the waterfall, the foaming cascades
throughout its course, the various colors with which
the water was tinted, by turns yellow, white, and
black, showing that it had forced its channel through
beds of marl, lime, and slate ; — the enormous blocks
of granite, which it had laid bare but not removed,
each forming the centre of another cataract, adding
roar to roar, cascade to cascade; — entire trees, which
it had uprooted, lying partly in and partly out of the
water, the foliage of one half tossed by the violent
wind, the other tortured by the dashing waves ; fragments of the banks clothed with verdure converted
into islands, which floated on the surface of the torrent, broken in dashing against the trees, as the trees
were torn and bruised in passing the blocks of mar*
ble and granite ; — all this roaring and clashing, all
these sights and sounds confined between two narrow
precipitous banks, held me a long time in agitated
thought. This torrent is the Clusone.

16

PICCIOLA.

Skirting its banks, I came with it into one of four
valleys called " Protestant," in memory of the ancient
Vaudois, who formerly took refuge there. Here my
torrent had no longer its rapid and riotous gait, nor
its hundred roaring voices. Flowing now quietly,
decently, almost coquettishly, it took upon itself the
air of a modest rivulet, as it caressed with its waves
the walls of Fenestrella.
It was then that I first saw Fenestrella, celebrated
for the forts which crown the two mountains between
which the town is placed. These forts, which communicate by a covered way, had been partly dismantled during the wars of the republic. One of them,
however, repaired and refortified, had become a
prison of state when Piedmont was incorporated
into France.
It was in this fortress of Fenestrella that Charles
Veramont, Count of Charney, was confined, accused
of having plotted to subvert the regular and legal
government of his country, to substitute for it a regime of disorder and terror.
"We see him then separated from men of pleasure
and men of science, regretting neither; forgetting,
without too much bitterness, that hope of political
regeneration, which for the moment had seemed to
reanimate his worn-out heart; bidding an adieu,
forced, it is true, but full of resignation, to his fortune, whose pomp had never had the power to dazzle
him, and to his friends, who wearied him; having foi
his abode, instead of his spacious and princely man

PICCIOLA.

17

lion, a bare and gloomy chamber, and for his only
valet, his jailer.
But what matter to him the gloom and nakedness
^f his apartment. The necessaries of life he had,
dud he was weary of its superfluities. His jailer
even seemed to him endurable.
His thoughts alone weighed upon him. However
what other diversion remained for him ?
All correspondence with the outside world was interdicted. He was not allowed to have either books,
pens, or paper. This the discipline of the prison
required. In other times, this would have been no
privation to him, when he was only anxious to escape
from the perplexities of science by which he was
beset. Now, a book would have given him a friend
to consult, and more, an adversary to combat. Shut
out from the world, he was thrown back upon himself, forced to live with his enemy — thought.
But how bitter and oppressive is that thought
which continually speaks to him of his desperate
position. How lifeless and heavy for him — for him
whom nature had overwhelmed with her gifts, whom
society had surrounded from his birth with her favors and privileges; for him, to-day a captive, and
miserable; for him who has so much need of projection and aid, and who believes neither in the
power of God, nor in the pity of men !
He tried again to rid himself of this argumentative
demon, which alternately froze and scorched him,
when, shut up to his reveries, he was a victim to te
2

18

PICCIOLA.

struggles. Once more he would turn for thought
to outward objects—- to the material world. But,
ah ! how shrunk and narrow the world that met hit
eyes.
The room occupied by Charney was at the rear of
the citadel, in a small building raised on the ruins
of an ancient fortification, formerly connected with
the defensive works, but which, in the rebuilding of
the fort, was rendered useless.
Four walls newly whitewashed, so that they did
not even yield him the amusement of recognizing
the traces of those who had before been inmates of
this place of desolation; a table, at which he could
do nothing but eat; one chair, whose singleness
seemed ever to remind him that never would any
human being sit there beside him; a trunk for his
clothing; a little sideboard of painted deal, partly
worm-eaten, presented a striking contrast to an elegant dressing-case inlaid with silver, which was placed
upon it, — the only remnant which was left him of
his former luxury; a narrow bed, but clean; a pair
of curtains of blue cloth, which hung at his window, —•
a derisive superfluity, a bitter raillery, for the closeness of the bars, and the high wall rising but a few
feet opposite his window, left him little to fear from
prying eyes or the importunity of the too ardent
rays of the sun. Such was the furnishing of his
chamber
Over this room was another exactly like it, but
unoccupied; he had no companions in this detached
portion of the fortress. The rest of his world was

PICCIOLA.

19

Emited to a massive spiral stone stairway which led
to a small paved court, sunk in one of tr£ ancient
moats of the citadel.
In this place, for two hours each day, he took
as much exercise and enjoyed as much liberty as
the rules prescribed by the commandant permitted.
From this court the prisoner could look upon the
summit of the mountains, and the vapors which rose
from the plains; for the ramparts, lower at the east,
allowed the air and sun to penetrate. But once more
in his chamber, a horizon of masonry alone met his
eye, in the midst of this sublime and picturesque
scenery which surrounded him. At the right rose
the enchanting green hills of Saluces; at the left,
the last undulations of the valleys of Aosta, and the
banks of the Chiara; before him were the marvellous plains of Turin ; behind him, the Alps, rising
one above another, adorned with rocks, forests, and
abysses, from Mount Genevra to Mount Cenis, and
he could see nothing, — nothing but a misty sky suspended over his head in a frame of stones, nothing
but the pavement of his court and the bars of his
prison, nothing but the high wall that faced his window, of which the wearisome uniformity was only
broken towards its extremity by a small square window, at which, from time to time, through the bars,
he had a glimpse of a sad and frowning face.
And this was the circumscribed world in which
he must henceforward seek his diversions and find
his joys. The effort taxed all bis faculties.
He marked on his walls, with a bit of charcoal,

20

PICCIOLA.

figures and dates which recalled to him the ii&ppj
events of his youth. Alas! how small the number
of them! He turned from these remembrances with
a sinking heart.
Then the fatal demon of scepticism returned with
ts desolating convictions, which he formed into
phrases that he dared to inscribe on the walls, near
the names of his mother and his sister.
Determined to triumph over his morbid abstraction and his torpid idleness, he tried to accustom
himself to think of things puerile and frivolous ; he
hastened, of his own free will, to meet that brutishness which must result from a long sojourn in a
prison ; he plunged into it, he wallowed in it with
frenzy.
The philosopher employed himself in ravelling the
threads of silk or linen. The scholar made flageolets of straw, constructed vessels ornamtjiited with
flags from walnut-shells. The man of genius made
whistles, carved boxes and open-work baskets from
the stones of fruit. The revolutionist made chains
and musical instruments from the clastic wire of his
braces. For a while he deligh',e<£ in his works ; then
disgust took possession of him, <i«d he crushed them
all under his feet.
To vary his occupatior '**& carved upon his table
a thousand odd designs frever schoolboy cut his
desk, or covered it with arabesques in relief or intaglio, with more patience and skill. The portal of
the church of Caudebec, the pulpit of St. Gudule, aj

P.CCIOLA.

21

Brussels, are not decorated with a greater profusion
of carved figures. There were houses on houses,
fishes on trees, men taller than the steeples, boats on
roofs, carriages on the water, dwarf pyramids, gigantic flies; all this, horizontal, vertical, oblique, topsyturvy, upside down, a true hieroglyphical chaos in
which he forced himself sometimes to seek a sym
bolical sense, a connection, a design ; for he who
believed in chance as the moving power of the world
might easily hope to find a complete poem in the
sculptures on his table, or a design of Raphael in
the mottled veins of a piece of box-wood.
He taxed his ingenuity to multiply difficulties to
vanquish, problems to solve, enigmas to guess, and
ennui, formidable enemy, came to surprise him in the
midst of these grave employments.
The man whose face he had seen at the window at
the extremity of the opposite wall might have furnished him, perhaps, with more real diversion; but
this other prisoner seemed to avoid his notice, retir
ing from the grating as soon as the Count showed
any signs of observing him. Charney conceived a
latred for him.
Such was his opinion of human nature, that noth
Ing more was necessary than this avoidance of him
V) convince him that the unknown was a spy employed to watch his movements even in prison, or
»ome old enemy rejoicing over his misery and humiliation.

22

PICCIOLA.

Oft interrogating the jailer, however, he saw that
his suspicions were false.
" He is an Italian," said he, " a good fellow, a good
Christian, for I often find him at his prayers."
Charney shrugged his shoulders. " A n d why ia
he here ? " asked he.
" He attempted to assassinate the Emperor."
" Is he, then, a patriot ? "
" Patriot ? oh n o ! but the poor man had a son and
a daughter; now he has only a daughter — his son w
dead in Germany — poor fellow!"
" I t was a paroxysm of selfishness, then," murmured Charney.
" Zounds! you are not a father, Signor Count," re^
plied the jailer. " If my little Antonio, who is still
at the breast, had to be weaned for the good of the
empire, which is not much older than he — but silence, I do not wish to lodge at Fenestrella without
the keys at my girdle or under my pillow."
" And what are now the occupations of this bold
conspirator ? "
" He catches flies," said the jailer, with a jesting
glance.
Charney no longer hated his neighbor; he despised
him.
" He is then mad," cried he.
" Why mad, Signor Count ? a later comer than he
you have already become a master in the art of
earving in wood. Patience."

PICCIOLA.

28

Notwithstanding the irony of these last words,
Charney resumed his manual labors, and the explanation of his hieroglyphics — remedies, alas! impo
tent against the pain with which he was tormented.
In these puerilities, in this weariness, passed all
ne winter.
Happily for him, a new subject of interest was
loon to come to his aid.

CHAPTER

in.

ONE day, at the prescribed hour, Charney was
walking in the court-yard, his head bowed, his arms
crossed behind his back, pacing slowly, as if he could
so make the narrow space which he was permitted
to perambulate seem larger.
Spring announced its coming; a softer air dilated
his lungs, and to live free, and be master of the soil
and of space, seemed to him the goal of his desires.
He counted one by one the paving-stones of his
little court, without doubt to verify the exactness of
his former calculations, for it was by no means the
first time he had numbered them, when he perceived
there, under his eyes, a little mound of earth raised
between two stones, slightly opened at the top. He
stopped; his heart beat without his being able to
tell why. But all is hope or fear for a captive. In
the most indifferent objects, and the most insignifi
cant events, he seeks some hidden cause which speaks
to him of deliverance.
Perhaps this slight derangement on the surface
might be produced by some great work under ground
perhaps a tunnel, which would open and make a waj
for him to the fields and mountains. Perhaps hi?

PICCIOLA.

25

friends or his former accomplices were mining to
reach him, and restore to him life and liberty.
He listened attentively, and fancied he heard a
»ow, rumbling noise under ground; he raised his
head, and the tremulous air bore to him the rapid
stroke of the tocsin, and the continued roll of drums
along the ramparts, like a signal of war. He started,
and with a trembling hand wiped from his forehead
great drops of sweat.
Was he to be free? Had France changed its
master ?
This dream was only a flash. Reflection destroyed
the illusion. He had no accomplices, and had never
had friends. He listened again; the same sounds
struck his ear, but gave rise to other thoughts. This
stroke of the tocsin, and the roll of the drum, were
only the distant sound of a church-bell that he heard
every day at the same hour, and the accustomed call
to arms, which need only excite emotion in a few
Straggling soldiers of the citadel.
Charney smiled bitterly, and looked upon himself
with pity, when he thought that some insignificant
animal, a mole who had without doubt lost his way,
or a field-mouse who had scratched up the earth
under his feet, had caused him to believe for an instant in the affection of men, and the overthrow of a
£reat empire.
In order, however, to make his mind quite clear
about it, stooping over the little mound, he carefulbf
removed some of the particles of earth, and saw with

26

PICCIOLA

astonishment that the wild agitation which had over
come him for an instant had not even been caused
by a busy, burrowing, scratching animal, armed with
claws and teeth, but by a feeble specimen of vegetation, with scarcely strength to sprout, weak and
languishing.
Raising himself, profoundly humiliated, he was
about to crush it with his heel, when a fresh breeze,
laden with the perfume of honeysuckle and hawthorn, was wafted to him, as if to implore mercy for
the poor plant, which perhaps one day would also
have perfume to give him.
Another thought came to him to arrest his destructive intention. How was it possible for that little
plant, so tender, soft, and fragile, that a touch might
break it, to raise, separate, and throw out that earth
dried and hardened by the sun, trodden under foot
by him, and almost cemented to the two blocks of
granite between which it was pressed ?
He bent over it again and examined it with re*
newed attention. He saw at its upper extremity a
sort of double fleshy valve, which folded over the
first leaves, preserved them from the touch of anything that might injure them, and at the same time
enabled them to pierce that earthy crust in search of
air and sun.
Ah, said he to himself, behold all the secret. It
receives from nature this principle of strength, as
the joung birds, who before they are born are armed
with a bill hard enough to break the thick shel

PICCIOLA.

27

which confines them. Poor prisoner, thou possessest at least the instruments which can aid thee to
gain thy freedom.
He stood gazing at it a few moments, and no longer dreamed of crushing it.
The next day, in taking his ordinary walk, he was
striding along in an absent-minded manner, and
nearly trod on it by accident. He drew back quickly,
and, surprised at the interest with which his new
acquaintance inspired him, he paused to note its
progress.
The plant had grown, and the rays of the sun had
caused it to lose somewhat of its sickly palor. He
reflected upon the power which that pale and slender stem possessed to absorb the luminous essence
with which to nourish and strengthen itself, and to
borrow from the prism the colors with which to
clothe itself, colors assigned beforehand to each one
of its parts. Yes, its leaves, without doubt, thought
he, will be tinted with a different shade from its
stem ; and then its flowers, what color will they be ?
Yellow, blue, red? Why, nourished by the same
sap as the stalk, do they not clothe themselves in the
same livery? How do they draw their azure and
scarlet from the same source where the other haa
only found a bright or sombre green ? So it is to be,
however; for notwithstanding the confusion and disorder of affairs here below, matter follows a regular
though blind march. Blind, indeed, repeated h e ; I
%eed no other proof of it than these two fleshy lobcni

28

PICCIOLA.

which have facilitated its egress from the earth, but
which now, of no use in its preservation, nourish
themselves still from its substance, and hang down,
wearying it by their weight — of what use are
they?
As he said this, day was declining, and the chilly
spring evening approached; the two lobes rose slowly as he watched them, apparently desiring to justify
themselves from his reproach; they drew closer together, and enclosed in their bosom, to protect it
against the cold and the attacks of insects, the tender and fragile foliage which was about to be deprived
f the sun, and who thus sheltered and warmed, slept
under the two wings which the plant had just softly
folded over it.
The man of science comprehended more fully this
mute but decided response, in observing that the
outside of the vegetable bivalve had been slightly
cut by the nibbling of a snail the night before, of
which the traces still remained.
This strange colloquy between thought on one
side and action on the other, between the man and
the plant, was not to end here. Charney had been
too long occupied with metaphysical discussions to
surrender himself easily to a good reason.
" This is all very well," said he ; " here as elsewhere a happy concurrence of fortuitous circumstances has favored this feeble creation. It was born
armed with a lever to lift the soil, and a buckler ta
protect its head, two conditions necessary to its ex

PICCIOLA.

29

fctence ; if it had happened that these had not been
fulfilled, the plant must have died, stifled in its germ,
like myriads of other individuals of its species, whom
Nature has no doubt created, unfinished, imperfect,
incapable of preserving and reproducing themselves
and who have had but an hour of life on earth.
Who can calculate the number of false and impotent
combinations Nature has made, before succeeding in
producing one single specimen fitted to endure ?
A. blind man may hit the mark, but how many arrows
must he lose before he attains this result. For thousands of ages matter has been triturated by the
double movement of attraction and repulsion; is it
then strange that Chance should so many times produce the right combinations? I grant that this
envelope can protect these first leaves, but will it
grow and enlarge so as to shelter and preserve also
the other leaves against the cold and the attacks of
their enemies ? Next spring, when new foliage will
be born as fragile and tender as this, will it be here
to protect it again ? No ! Nothing then has been
planned in all this, nothing is the result of intelligent
thought, but rather of a happy chance."
Sir Count, Nature has more than one response with
which to refute your argument. Have patience, and
observe that feeble and isolated production, sent
forth and thrown into the court of your prison, perhaps less by a stroke of chance, than by the benevo*
^nt foresight of Providence. These excrescences in
*hich you have divined a lever and a shield, had

B
O

PIOOIOLA.

already rendered other services to this feeble plaint
After having served it as envelope in the frozen
ground through the winter, the right time having
arrived, they lent it their nourishing breast, as it
were, suckling it when, a simple germ, it had not yet
roots with which to seek moisture from the ground,
or leaves to breathe the air and the sun. You were
right, Sir Count; these protecting wings which have
until now brooded so maternally over the young
plant, will not be developed with i t ; they will fall,
but not till they have accomplished their task, and
when their ward will have gained strength sufficient
to do without their aid. Do not be anxious about
its future ; Nature watches over this as over its sister
plants; and as long as the north winds, the chilly
fogs and snow-flakes, descend from the Alps, the new
leaves yet in the bud will find there a safe asylum,
a dwelling arranged for them, closed from the air by
a cement of gum and rosin, which will expand according to their need, only opening under a favorable
sky and atmosphere. They will not come out without a warm covering of fur, a soft cottony down which
will defend them from the last frosts or any atmos
pheric caprices. Did ever mother watch more lovingly over the preservation of her child? Behold,
Sir Count, what you might have known long since, if,
descending from the abstruse regions of human science, you had deigned to lower your eyes to examine
the simple works of God. The further north you*
steps had turned, the more these common marvels

PICCIOLA.

SI

would have manifested themselves to you. Where
the danger is greater, there the cares of Providence
ire redoubled.
The philosopher had followed attentively all the
progress and the transformations of the plant. Again
he had contended with her by reasoning, and she had
ever an answer for all his arguments.
" Of what use are these prickly hairs that garnish
thy stem ? " said he. And the next day she showed
them to him covered with a slight hoar-frost, which,
thanks to them, kept at a distance, had not chilled
her tender skin.
" Of what use in the fine days will be your warm
coat, wadded with down ? "
The fine days arrived; she cast off her winter
cloak to adorn herself with her spring toilet of green,
and her new branches sprang forth free from these
silken envelopes, henceforward useless.
" But if the storm rages the wind will bruise thee,
and the hail will cut thy leaves, too tender to resist
it."
The wind blew, and the young plant, too feeble
yet to dare to fight, bent to the earth, and was defended in yielding. The hail came, and by a new
manoeuvre, the leaves rising along the stem, shielding it, pressed against each other for mutual projection, presenting only their underside to the blows
i)f the enemy, and opposed their solid ribs to the
weight of the atmospheric projectiles — in their
fcnion was their strength; this time the plant had

32

PICCIOLA.

come forth from the combat, not without some slight
mutilations, but alive and still strong, and ready to
expand before the rays of the sun, which would heal
her wounds.
" Is Chance then intelligent ?" said Charney
" must I spiritualize matter, or materialize mind ? "
And he did not cease to interrogate his mute instructress ; he delighted to watch her growth, and
mark her gradual metamorphoses.
One day, after he had contemplated it for a long
time, he was surprised to find that he had been lost
in thought, that his reveries had an unaccustomed
tenderness, and that his happy thoughts continued
during his walk in the court. Eaising his head, he
saw at the barred window of the great wall the
" catcher of flies," who seemed to be observing him.
At first he blushed, as if the man could read his
thoughts, but then he smiled, for he no longer
despised him. Had he the right to do so ? Was
not his mind also absorbed in the contemplation of
one of the lowest ranks of creation ?
" Who knows," said he, " but this Italian may have
discovered in a fly as much worthy of study as I in
my plant ? "
On returning to his chamber, that which first
struck his eye was this maxim of the fatalist, it
scribed by him upon the wall two months before:
Chance is blind, and is the sole author of creation.
He took a bit of charcoal and wrote underneath
PERHAPS !

CHAPTER

IV.

CHAKNEY wrote no more upon his wall, and cut
upon his table only growing stems protected by their
cotyledons, only leaves with their serrated edges, and
salient veins. He passed the greater part of his
hours for exercise before his plant, examining and
studying its development; and when again in his
chamber, he would often, through the window-bars,
still gaze upon it.
It is now the favorite occupation, the plaything,
the whim of the prisoner. Will he tire of it as he
has of others ?
One morning from his window he saw the jailer,
in rapidly crossing the court, pass so near to his plant,
that it seemed in danger of being crushed by his foot.
For the moment he shuddered with fear. When
Ludovic came to bring him his pittance for breakfast,
he determined to petition him to spare the only ornament of his walk; but he found it difficult to put lis
form a request so simple. Perhaps the discipline of
the prison required that the court should be cleared
of all vegetation. It was then a favor that he would
ask, and he possessed little with which to repay it
This Ludovic had already neavily taxed him, in ex

34

PICCIOLA.

fcorting from him as much as possible, in payment
for the articles that the jailer reserves the right of
furnishing to the prisoners. Besides, Charney had
rarely spoken to the man, whose brusque manners
and sordid character repelled him. Without doubt
he would find him little disposed to be agreeable tt
him. His pride made him shrink from appearing by
his tastes to be on the same level with the fly-catcher,
for whom he had so plainly shown his contempt.
Then, after all, his request might be refused; for the
inferior whose position gives him for the moment the
right to grant or deny a favor, almost always uses his
power with harshness, not knowing that indulgence
belongs to strength.
A refusal would profoundly wound the pride and
the hopes of the prisoner. It was, then, only after a
host of oratorical precautions, and strengthening himself with all his philosophical knowledge of human
weakness, that Charney broached his discourse, previously logically arranged, to gain his object without
compromising his amour propre, or rather his vanity.
He commenced by addressing the jailer in Italian, thus awakening the souvenirs of childhood and
nationality. He spoke to him of his son, his little
Antonio. He knew how to touch the sensitive chord
of his heart, and so force him to listen. Then he
took from his elegant dressing-case a small silvergilt goblet, and desired him to present it as his gift
to his child. Ludovic smiled, but refused it.
Charney, though somewhat abashed, would not

PICCIOLA.

35

consider himself defeated. He insisted by an adroit
transition, saying, " I know that a toy, or rattle, or
flower, would be a more suitable gift for the child,
but you can sell the cup, my good man, and with the
price purchase these for him. A propos of flowers,"
paid he, — and behold him fairly launched in\;o his
subject.
Thus the great springs of human action — love of
country, paternal love, personal interest — were all
brought to bear upon the accomplishment of his
object. Could more have been done if his own fate
had been at stake ? Judge, then, whether he already
loved his plant!
" Signor Count," said Ludovic, when he had ceased
to speak, u keep your goblet, lest the other bijoux in
the case should miss it; you forget that my little boy,
but three months old, has no need of a goblet to
drink from; as to your gillyflower " —
" What! a gillyflower! Is it a gillyflower ? " cried
Charney, foolishly disappointed to have set his heart
upon so common a flower.
" I am sure I do not know, Signor Count; to my
eyes all plants are more or less gillyflowers. But
since the preservation of this one is the matter in
question, you are a little late in recommending it to
my tender mercies. I should long ago have crushed
it without any intention of hurting either you or it,
if I had not noticed your tender interest in the pretty
thing."
" Oh! that interest," said Charney, somewhat con*
fused, " is a very simple tVing."

80

P1CCTOLA.

" Tut, tut, tut, I understand that,* replied Ludo
vie, with a wink of the eye, " occupation is a neces
Bity to man; he must attach himself to something
and prisoners have but few objects from which to
make their choice. Among our inmates here, Signoi
Count, are those who were once, without doubt, grand
personages, and learned men, (for they do not bring
the small fry here). Now they amuse and occupy
themselves with the most trivial things. One catches
flies — there is no harm in that. Another," added
he, with a wink of the eye, more significant than the
first, "cuts and hacks with his penknife the deal
table, without considering that I am responsible for
the furniture of the place."
The Count would have spoken, but Ludovic gave
him no opportunity. " Some," said he, " raise canary
birds and goldfinches, and others white mice. I respect their fancies to that degree, that I have given
away a superb white Angora cat, which was the pet
of my wife and myself, lest this small game should
prove too strong a temptation for i t ; and all the cats
in the world are not worth a captive's mouse."
" You are very good, Monsieur Ludovic," said
Charney, annoyed that any one should suppose that
his tastes could descend to such puerilities — r t but
that plant is to me more than a diversion."
" What matter ! if it only reminds you of the tree
ander which your mother rocked you in your infancy
ver JBacco, it may shade half the court-yard. My
orders say nothing about it, so I will shut my eyes t*
it. Were it to become a tree and aid you to scale

PICCIOLA.

37

the wall, that would be another thing; but we have
time enough to think of that," said he, with a coarse
iaugh; " not that I do not wish you, with all my
heart, the enjoyment of liberty and the free air, but
it must come at the right time, according to rule, and
with the permission of the authorities ; if you should
attempt to escape from the citadel " —
" What would you do ? "
" What would I do ! bar your passage, though you
killed m e ; or order the sentinel to fire on you, with
no more pity than if you were a rabbit, — that is the
order, — but touch one of the leaves of your gillyflower, no, no ! Put my foot upon it, never! I have
always regarded as a consummate rascal, and unworthy to be a jailer, the man who would maliciously crush the spider of a poor prisoner; it is an
ugly action — yes, it is a crime."
Charney was at once surprised and touched to find
so much sensibility in his guardian ; and as his respect for him increased, his vanity was all the more
determined to account by some sufficient reasons for
his interest in the plant.
" My good fellow," said he, " I thank you for your
good will; I acknowledge that this plant is for me
the source of a multitude of philosophical observations, full of interest. I delight to study its physiological phenomena ' And as he saw by the jailer's
expression that he listened without understanding, he
added, " besides, the species to whicn it belongs possesses medicinal virtues, particularly useful in a disease to which I am subject."

88

PICCIOLA.

He lied ; but it would have cost him too much to
allow the man who had just begun to rise in his
esteem, to think that he too had descended to the
whimsical puerilities of the prison, — the only man
who approached him, and who for him represented
the whole human race.
" If your plant, Signor Count, has rendered yon
such service," replied Ludovic, as he prepared to
leave the room, " you ought to show your gratitude
to it by watering it sometimes; for if I had not taken
care, in bringing water to you, to moisten it from
time to time, the poor picciola would have died of
thirst. Adieu, Sir Count."
" One instant, my good Ludovic," cried Charney
more and more surprised to find such delicate in.
stincts enclosed in so rough an exterior, and repenting that he had until now so wronged him. " What!
you interest yourself thus in my pleasures, and yet
are so silent before me. I pray you accept this little
present as a souvenir of my gratitude. If hereafter
I can more fully acquit myself to you, count upon
me."
And he again presented him the goblet. This
lime Ludovic took it, and while examining it with a
sort of curiosity, said, " Acquit yourself of what, Signor Count ? Plants ask nothing but water, and one
jan give them a drink without ruining one's self at
the inn. If this one diverts you a little from you*
troubles, if it produces something of use to you
Miough is saide"

PICCIOLA.

3*

And he went at once and replaced the goblet in
Its case.
The Count stepped towards Ludovic and offered
him his hand.
" Oh, no, no ! " said he, drawing back with a constrained but respectful air ; " one only gives his hand
to his equal or his friend."
" Well, Ludovic, be my friend/'
*' No, n o ! " said the jailer, " that cannot be, Excel*
lenza. It is necessary to foresee all, that one may
be able to fulfil his duties conscientiously to-morrow as well as to-day. If you were my friend and
tried to give us the slip, should I have courage to
cry to the sentinel, *fire!' No, I am your guardiaa,
your jailer, your most devoted servant."

C H A P T E R V.
AFTER the departure of Ludovic, Charney reflected, and thought how, notwithstanding all his
personal advantages, in all the relation between
them, he had shown himself inferior to this man.
To what miserable subterfuges had he resorted to
surprise the heart of this simple and kindly being !
he had not even hesitated to descend to a falsehoodHow thankful he was to him for the secret cares
lavished upon his plant. What! this jailer,supposed
capable of a refusal, when only the refraining from
an unkind action was in question, had anticipated his
wishes; he had been a spy upon him, not to sneer
at his weakness, but to favor his pleasures. His disinterestedness forced the proud Count to acknowledge himself his debtor!
The hour for his exercise having arrived, he does
not forget to share with his plant the portion of water
which is allowed him. Not content with watering it
be takes care to free it from the dust which tarnishes
its leaves, and the insects which attack it.
While thus occupying himself he thinks of Ludovic, and desires to know him better, to seek an explanation of the singular contrasts which the character of this man present, at the same time rude and

PICCIOLA.

41

good-natured, pitiless and tender-hearted, niggardlj
and disinterested.
He who had formerly been so much occupied witfc
the study of the fall of old empires, the migration of
races, the exploits and conquests of Cyrus, Alexander, and Gengis-Khan, asked nothing more of the
great history of the world than the history of his
jailer. By means of questions, suppositions, and
logical deductions, this is what he learned from Ludovic himself.
Ludovic Bitti, a Piedmontese, was born at Mce, a
compatriot and contemporary of Massena.
They
were both children of the same quarter of the town,
comrades in school, and out of school next-door
neighbors.
Yet from their earliest youth, in accordance with
their different natures, if they played horse, Ludovic
was the horse, and Massena the driver; if they were
to take the fruit from a neighbor's orchard, Ludovic
served as the ladder by which Massena climbed the
wall, and the climber knew very well how to reserve
for himself the lion's share; if they went poaching
in the woods, Ludovic beat the bushes, while Massena was the hunter.
Thus the two companions had grown up together,
had been vagabonds together, then together they
had enlisted as soldiers in the service of the Republic, and together they had taken their letters of naturalization, — not in the ordinary maxmer, by declar*
mg themselves French, but in aiding the conquest,
*diich declared France their own country.

42

PICCIOLA.

At this epoch, it is true, Massena wore already the
badge of general of division, while Ludovic still preserved his first woollen epaulettes : one had been
born to dominion and command, the other to obedience.
Yes, obedience, passive, blind, complete, was in
Ludovic a second nature, an instinctive necessity.
He was a simple machine of war, moving only by
the will of another. The orders of his superior
officer seemed to him like the orders of God him
self; his motions were so entirely regulated by
orders, that, in the height of the battle, even with
the pistol of an enemy at his breast, he would have
remained with his sabre in the air, without striking,
if a signal had announced to him the end of hostilities.
Although brave, very brave, Ludovic had never
allowed himself to be carried away by his ardor,
and would never have broken the ranks by a foot's
length. If he had not signalized himself by any
striking action during his campaigns, it was because
he had not received the order to do so.
If, in place of his ration of brandy, his sergeant
had offered him a glass of ink to drink, saying, " It is
the order," he would have swallowed it without a
Crown.
In the terrible year '95, in the midst of the snows
r>f the Alps, when he and his companions marched
with bare feet and empty stomachs, Ludovic quietlj
said, " I t is the order! "

PICCIOLA.

43

Wounded at Marengo, slightly lamed by a ball
tthich lodged in the flesh of his thigh, Ludovic was
forced to retire from the service.
Great then was his embarrassment. He had only
gained, during his campaigns and his sojourn in
Germany, Italy, and various parts of France, a marvellous facility in swearing in four or five different
idioms.
Again at Nice, his native place, condemned to a
sedentary life, abandoned to himself, with no impetus
from without, he knew not how to arrange his movements, or what rule to impose upon his conduct.
He had no other diversion, no other pleasure, no
other happiness, but to see the parade of the garrison, and to march with limping step after the guard.
He went to bed every night at the beat of the
tattoo; but for his awaking, for his repasts, the drum
no longer sounded for him ; for the ordinary acts of
life there was no one to cry to him, " Bight! Left !
Forward!" What should he do with an existence
that he must direct himself, and of which he must
give himself all the trouble ? Obedience is so sweet
to inactive minds! And the habit of obedience
makes it a necessity.
In order to escape from this perplexing situation,
Ludovic took a grand resolution.
He married.
Into his domestic economy he carried the same
passive obedience that had distinguished him in the
army. As if all happiness was to come to him at

44

PICCIOLA.

the same time, the office of jailer at Fenestrella, just
then becoming vacant, was given to him, through
the influence of his old comrade Massena. He had
then two superior officers, in place of one, — hi«
wife and his cQmmandant.
His wife, younger than himself, passed, notwith
Standing an enormous goitre, for a tolerably goodlooking girl when he married h e r ; but being of a
crabbed disposition and sordidly avaricious, she had
forced Ludovic, who was naturally disinterested, to
overcharge the prisoners on all the articles which
the jailer was allowed to furnish them. But beyond
that, notwithstanding the wishes of his wife, he would
not accept from them the slightest gift. This refusal
could only happen in the interior of the prison, away
from his wife's cognizance ; that was his own affair ;
besides, it was the order.
There were then three distinct shades of character impressed upon Ludovic, — by his commandant,
his wife, and his own instincts. Unsparing when the
discipline of the citadel was in question, voila his
commandant; avaricious with the prisoners, voila
his wife; but good, sensible, generous, compassionate, when the commandant or the good woman of
the house did not breathe upon his heart to make it
hard or avaricious, voila himself.
If a more complete portrait of Ludovic Bitti is
desired, he was forty years of age, his complexion
dark, Ids beard thick, his shoulders broad, his frame
Strong, and of middle height.

PICCIOLA.

45

Picture him to yourself crossing, with a somewhat
Uncertain step, the courts of the citadel, smoking
a short black pipe, letting slip frequently an oath,
French, Provencal, Italian, or German, slightly
winking his eye when he wished to give himself
malicious air, quickly brightening at the mention oi
the name of his son Antonio, or at the thought of a
good action, and you know as much of him as Char
ney himself could learn.
One day soon after, at the appointed hour, Charney
was at his post near his plant, when he saw a heavy
black cloud obscuring the sun, hanging like a gray
floating dome over the towers of the fortress. Soon
large drops of rain began to fall; he started to go
quickly under shelter, when hail-stones mingled with
the rain pattered on the pavement of the court. La
povera, whirled and twisted by the storm, seemed on
the point of being uprooted from the earth; her wet
leaves fretting one against the other, trembling with
the tossing of the wind, uttered, as it were, plaintive
murmurs and cries of distress.
Charney paused. He remembered the reproaches
of Ludovic, and looked eagerly around for some object with which to protect his plant; he found nothing ; the hail-stones became larger and fell more
quickly, and threatened its destruction. He trem
Died for her, for her whom he had seen so lately resist
so well the violence of the wind and the hail; but
now he loved his plant too well to suffer it to run
any risk of injury, for the sake of getting the better
of it in an argument.

46

PICCIOLA.

Taking, then, a resolution worthy of a lover, woiv
thy of a father, he drew near, he placed himself before
his protegee, and interposed himself as a wall between
her and the wind; he bent over her, serv'ng as a
shield against the shock of the hail; and there, motionless, panting from his struggles with the storm,
from which he sheltered her, protecting her with his
hands, with his body, with his head, with his love, he
waited till the cloud had passed.
The storm was over. But might not a similar
danger menace it when he, its protector, was held
from it by bolts and bars. Moreover, the wife of
Ludovic, followed by a large dog, sometimes came
into the court. This dog in his gambols might, with
one snap of his mouth, or a stroke of his paw, destroy
the darling of the philosopher. Charney spent the
rest of the day in meditating upon a plan, and the
next day prepared to put it in execution.
The small portion of wood allowed him was
scarcely enough for his comfort in this climate,
where the evenings and mornings are so chilly.
What matter ? Has he not the warmth of his bed ?
he can retire earlier and rise later. In this way,
sparing his wood, he soon amassed enough for his
purpose. When Ludovic questioned him about it,
he said, " I t is to build a palace for my mistress."
The jailer winked his eye, as if he understood; but
ae did not.
During this time Charney split, shaped, and pointed
his sticks, laid together the most supple branches.

PICCIOLA.

47

preserved carefully the flexible osier which was used
to tie together his daily bundle of fagots. Then he
found the lining to his trunk to be of a coarse, loosely
woven fabric, which he detached, and from it drew
the coarsest and strongest threads. His materials
thus prepared, he set himself bravely to work as soon
as the laws of the jail, and the scrupulous exactness
of the jailer, would allow.
Around his plant, between the pavement of the
court, he carefully inserted sticks of various sizes,
making them firm at their base by a cement composed of earth, gathered bit by bit, here and there
in the interstices between the stones, and of plaster,
and saltpetre, purloined from the old moat of the
castle. The principal frame-work thus arranged, he
interlaced it with light twigs, thus making a sort of
hurdle, capable, in case of need, of protecting la
povera from any blow, or the approach of the dog.
He was greatly encouraged during his work to
find that Ludovic, who, at the commencement, shaking his head with a low grumbling sound of evil
augury, had seemed uncertain whether to allow him
to continue his work, had now decided in his favor;
and sometimes, while quietly smoking his pipe, leaning against the door at the entrance of the court, h©
would smilingly watch the inexperienced worker 5
occasionally taking his pipe from his mouth to give
him some counsel, which Charney did not always
know how to profit by.
But inexpert as he was, his work progressed. In

(8

PICCIOLA.

order to complete it, he impoverished himself, by
robbing his scanty bed of straw with which to make
a sort of matting to use when needed for the protection of his tender plant from the sharp gusts of
Alpine wind which threatened it on one side, or the
mid-day rays of the sun reflected from the granite.
One evening the wind blew violently. Charney from
his window saw the court strewed with bits of straw
and little twigs. The matting of straw and the twigs
had not been firmly enough bound to resist the wind.
He promised himself to repair the misfortune the
next day; but the next day when he descended it
was all rebuilt. A hand more skilful than his had
firmly interlaced the straw and the branches, and he
knew well who to thank in his heart.
Thus, against all peril, thanks to him, thanks to
them, the plant was sheltered by rampart and roof;
and Charney became more and more warmly attached
to it, watching with delight its growth and development, as it unceasingly opened to him new marvels
for admiration.
Time gave firmness and solidity to the plant; the
covering of the stem, at first so delicate, gave, from
day to day, assurance of increasing fitness to endure,
and the happy possessor of the plant was seized with
a curious and impatient desire to see it blossom.
At last, then, he desired something ; this man of
a worn-out heart and frozen brain; this man so prid»
ing himself in his intellect, stoops from the proud
heights of science to be absorbed in the contempla
tion of an herb of the field.

PICCIOLA.

49

But do not hasten to accuse him of puerile weakness or of lunacy. The celebrated Quaker, John
Bertram, after having passed long hours in examining the structure of a violet, determined to devote
the powers of his mind to the study of the vegetable
wonders of nature, and so gained a place among the
masters of science.
If a philosopher of India became mad in seeking
to explain the phenomena of the sensitive plant,
perhaps Charney, on the contrary, will learn from
his plant true wisdom. Has he not already found in
it the charm which has the power to dissipate his
ennui, and enlarge his prison ?
" Oh, the flower! the flower!" said he, " that flower
whose beauty will expand only for my eyes, whose
perfume will exhale for me alone, what form will it
take ? What shades will color its petals ? Without
doubt it will offer me new problems to solve, and
throw a last challenge to my reason. Well! Let it
come! Let my frail adversary show herself armed
at all points, I will not shrink from the contestPerhaps only then shall I be able to comprehend, in
her completeness, that secret which her imperfect
formation has thus far hidden from me. But wilt
thou flower, — wilt thou show thyself to me one day
in all the glory of thy beauty and its adornment,
Piccioia?"
Picciola! that is the name by which he called her
vhen, in the necessity of hearing a human voice
he conversed aloud with the companion of his cap
4

50

PICCIOLA.

tivity, while lavishing upon her his caies. Povera
Picciola ! (poor little one) such had been the exclamation of Ludovic, moved with pity for the poor little thing, when it had nearly died for want of water.
Charney remembered it.
" Picciola ! Picciola! wilt thou flower soon ?" re
peated he, while carefully opening the leaves at the
extremities of the stems, to see if there was any
promise of blossom. And this name, Picciola, was
very pleasant to his ear, for it brought to his mind,
ot once, the two beings who peopled his world, — his
plant and his jailer.
One morning, when at the hour of his daily promenade, he interrogated Picciola, leaf by leaf, his eyes
were suddenly arrested by something peculiar in its
appearance ; his heart beat violently, he laid his hand
upon it, and the blood suffused his face. It was a
long time since he had experienced so keen an emotion. That which he saw was at the end of the main
stem, a new excrescence, green, silky, of a spherical
form, covered with delicate scales placed one upon
the other, like the slates upon the rounded dome of
a kiosk.
He cannot doubt — it is the bud — the flower will
toon be here.

C H A P T E R VI.
T H E fly-catcher, who often came to his window
leemed to take pleasure in watching the Count, so
busy about his plant. He had seen him mix and
prepare his mortar, braid his mats, tie his osiers, and
at last erect his palisades, and, prisoner like him, and
for a yet longer time, he could easily sympathize in
thought with the entire preoccupation of the philosopher.
And now, at that same barred window, another
face, fresh and smiling, appears. It is the face of a
woman, — a young girl, with an air at the same time
timid and lively; the carriage of her head and the
sparkle of her eyes showed that her vivacity was
only tempered by her modesty: her glance, full of
soul and expression, was partly veiled by her long
drooping lashes. Standing in the shadow of the
heavy grating, her head bent in an attitude of reverie, her fair hand leaning upon the bars for support, one might easily take her for a personification
of captivity. But when she raises her brow, and the
light falls upon it, the harmony and serenity of her
features, and the richness and freshness of her complexion, give assurance that she has been nurtured
in liberty of action and in the free air, and nc* under bolt and bar.

52

PICCIOLA.

Is she then one of those angels of charity who
visit those who are sick and in prison ? No ; filial
love has, until now, wholly filled her heart; it is from
that love that she has drawn her strength, and even
her beauty. Daughter of Girhardi, the Italian, the
catcher of flies, she had left the fetes and gay promenades of Turin, to take up her residence in the little town of Fenestrella; not, at first, that she might
see her father, for that permission was not granted
her, but that she might breathe the same air with
him, and be near him, while thinking of him. Now
she has obtained, by persistent entreaties, liberty
to visit him from time to time, and that is the reason
that she is joyous, animated, and beautiful.
Curiosity has led her to the window which looks
upon the court; a sentiment of interest holds her
there, notwithstanding she fears to be noticed by the
prisoner. Let her be reassured; Charney will not
see h e r ; at this moment Picciola and her incipient
bud wholly absorb his attention.
The following week, when the young girl came
Again to visit her father, as she went towards the
window to look at the other prisoner, Girhardi said,
u
For three days he has not been near his plant; the
poor man must be very ill."
" 111!" said she, with emotion.
" I have seen physicians crossing the court, and
from what Ludovic tells me, they seem to agree onlj
on one point — that he may die."
u
D i e ! " exclaimed the young girl, with dilated eye

PICCIOLA.

58

and terror rather than pity expressed in her facft,
Oh the unfortunate man! how I pity him!" Then
fixing upon her father a look of solicitude and anguish, " Then one can die here ; or rather, can one
live ? It is, without doubt, the confinement of the
prison, and the pestilential air that rises from the
old moats, that have caused his illness," cried she,
clasping the old man in her arms, for while speaking
of Charney she thought only of her father.
Girhardi strove to console her, while she covered
his hand with tears.
At this moment Ludovic entered. He brought to
the " catcher of flies" a new capture which he had
made for him. It was a goiden-winged beetle, which
he presented with a triumphant air. Girhardi smiled,
thanked him, and when unobserved by Ludovic, gave
the insect its liberty; it was the twentieth individual
of the same species that Ludovic had brought him
within a few days.
He profited by the opportune entrance of Ludovic
to inquire after Charney.
" By my patron saint! " said Ludovic, " I do not
forget him any more than the others, and until God
shall take him into his own keeping, he is my care ;
BO I have just been watering his plant."
" Ah, but of what use is that, if he will never see
t flower ?" sadly asked the young girl.
" A h ! young lady," said Ludovic. Then he added with his customary wink of the eye, emphasizing
his words with a motion of his raised forefinger, —•
4
Our seigneurs the physicians think that the poo?
u

54

PICCIOLA.

man is on his oack forever; but I, the seigneuf
jailer, do not believe i t : I have my secret."
And turning on his heel he went out, after having
tried to put on his rough voice and his stern face to
notify the young girl that only twenty-two minutes
remained of the time allotted for her visit. In exactly twenty-two minutes he returned and executed
the order.
The illness of Charney was only too real. One
evening, on reentering his room after having paid
his visit to Picciola, and bestowed upon her his daily
care, he was attacked by a slight faintness. His
head heavy and his limbs trembling, he threw himself upon his bed, disdaining to call any one to his
aid, and trusting to sleep to cure him.
But instead of sleep came pain; and the next day,
when the Count wished to rise, a stronger power than
his will nailed him to his pallet. He closed his eyes
and resigned himself to his weakness.
In the face of danger the calm of the philosopher
and the pride of the conspirator returned. He would
have thought himself dishonored by a murmur or a
complaint, or an appeal for aid to those who had
caused his sequestration from the world. He simply
crave some directions to Ludovic, with regard to the
care of his plant in case he should be indefinitely
kept a prisoner in his bed, — in this double incarceration which came to aggravate his original captivity
Physicians were called in, and he refused to answer
their questions. It seemed to him that, his life being
&o longer his own, he was no more responsible fo*

PICCIOLA.

65

Its preservation than for the administration of his
confiscated property, and that it belonged to those
who had appropriated all to watch over all.
At first the physicians insisted upon an answer,
but finding him persistently silent, they determined
in future only to interrogate his disease.
The symptoms of the disease replied to each one
with diverse meaning, for each of them held to a
different system. In the dilation of the pupil, and
the purple hue of his lips, one saw certain symptoms
of a putrid fever; the other, of inflammation of the
bowels; and the last, (for there were three of them)
decided that it was a case of apoplexy or paralysis,
from the color of the neck and temples, the coldness
of the extremities, the rigidity of the features, and
declared that the silence of the patient was only to
be attributed to the commencement of congestion of
the brain.
Twice the colonel in command of the citadel came
to visit the prisoner in his chamber. The first time
he asked him if he had any request to make; he
even offered to change his lodging if he thought that
the situation was the cause of his illness. The Count
only replied by a negative sign.
The second time he came accompanied by a priest
Cliarney, given over by the physicians, it was the
duty of the commandant to prepare the prisoner to
teceive the last offices of religion.
If, in the offices of the Church, there is one function more august and sacred than ancther, it is that
of the priest of prisons, — this priest the only specta*

56

PICCIOLA.

tor whose presence sanctifies the scaffold; and jet
the scepticism of our age has not feared to make him
the object of its bitter railleries. " Steeled by habit,"
they say, " these men are no longer capable of emotion, they cannot weep with the guilty, and in their
exhortations and their consolations, incessantly expressing the same thoughts, professional routine
destroys inspiration."
What matter if the phrases are the same ? Does
the same man listen to them twice ? A professional
routine, do you say ? But this profession — they
have chosen it — they endure it. They, with hearts
pure and virtuous, choose to live among hardened
spirits, who reply perhaps to their words of peace
and hope and brotherly kindness by words of insult
and contempt. They might, as well as you, have
lived in the enjoyments and luxuries of this world;
they bring themselves in contact with rags, and
breathe the humid and infected air of dungeons.
Born, also, with sensitive hearts, and with that horror
of blood and of death which belongs to human nature, they voluntarily condemn themselves to see, a
hundred times in their lives, rise and fall the bloody
knife of the guillotine. Are these, then, voluptuaries^
and dare we po freely censure them ?
In place of this man of sorrows, devoted beforehand and forever to functions so trying — in the
place of this man who has voluntarily made himself
the companion of the executioner, bring a new pries?
for each new criminal.

PICCIOLA.

57

Yes, without doubt his emotions will be more excited, he will weep more, but he will console less.
His words, if indeed he is able to speak, will be
broken with sobs. Will he be master of himself and
of his thoughts ? Will not his too keen emotion
render him incapable of fulfilling his duty, and will
the sight of his weakness give the culprit strength
courageously to give his life to society in expiation
of his crime ?
If the fortitude of the new consoler is such, that
on the first trial he shows neither emotion nor weakness, you may be sure that he is a thousand times
more insensible by nature than the other by habit.
Do you, then, wish to abolish this office of priest
of prisons ? A h ! take not their last friend from
those who are condemned to die ! In mounting the
scaffold let the repentant culprit have a cross before
his eyes, that so he may not see the fatal axe ; or, at
least, let his last look show him, by the side of the
minister of man's justice, the minister of God's
mercy!
Thank Heaven, the priest called to the bedside of
Charney, one truly worthy of his name, had not such
painful duties to perform. A man of enlarged mind,
he comprehended, from the silence and immobility
of the sick man, and still more from the desolating
inscriptions that he read upon the walls, how little
lie had to hope from this proud spirit.
He passed the night in prayer at his bedside, only
interrupting his pious office to aid I/idovic in the

58

PICCIOLA.

eares which he lavished upon the sufferer, awaiting
with patience a favorable moment when he could
lighten, with a ray of hope, these profound shadows
of incredulity.
During this critical night, the blood determining to
the brain, caused a violent delirium, so that for more
than an hour it required the united efforts of the
priest and the jailer to prevent the patient from
throwing himself out of bed. And while he struggled in their arms, in the midst of a crowd of incoherent words, of sentences without connection, of
wild apostrophes, the words, "Picciola! poor Picciola I" were uttered again and again by Charney.
" I must go ! I must go ! the moment has come !"
murmured Ludovic, " yes, it has come," repeated he,
with impatience; " but how can I leave the chaplain
alone to struggle with this madman ! And perhaps
in an hour it will be too late ! Oh, Holy Virgin! I
believe that he is becoming calmer — yes, he closes
his eyes, his arms drop. If, on my return, he is
not dead, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!"
In fact, the delirium of the patient had subsided;
Ludovic charged the priest to watch over him, and
quickly disappeared from the chamber.
In that chamber, dimly lighted by the feeble glimmer of a flickering lamp, no sound was heard but
the irregular respiration of the dying man, the murmured prayers of the priest, and the whistling of the
wind from the Alps between the prison-bars. Twice
•nly the sound of a human voice mingled with thest

PICCIOLA.

59

monotonous sounds. It was the Qui vive f of the
sentinel when Ludovic passed and repassed the postern in entering his lodge and returning to the room
of the sick man.
Scarcely a half hour had passed when he reentered, carrying in his hand a cup of steaming liquid
" I came near killing my dog," said he, as he came
in
" He commenced howling, which is an evil
omen, But how is he ? has he made any sign ? But
at any rate I have here that which will quiet him.
I have just tasted it — it is bitter enough — pardon,
father, but taste it yourself."
The priest gently put aside the offered cup.
" Well, after all, it is not for us; a pint of muscatel, with plenty of slices of lemon, would be better
suited to sustain us during the chilly night; is it not
so, signor chaplain ? But this is for him, for him
only.. He must drink it — he must drink every drop
of it — that is the prescription."
And as he spoke he poured the liquid from one
sup to another, blowing it to cool i t ; and when he
thought it at the proper temperature, he forced Charney to swallow it, while the priest supported his headThen covering him closely, " We shall soon see the
effect," said he, " and, at any rate, I don't stir from
here until the thing is settled. All my birds are
caged, and will not fly away. What do you say, signor chaplain ?" — " I ask pardon, father," said he, in
answer to an almost imperceptible gesture of reprimand from his more discreet companion And Lu

30

PICCIOLA.

do vie stationed himself, silent and immovable, by the
side of the bed, his eyes fixed upon the dying man,
holding his breath in his anxious watching for the
coming event.
Not perceiving any effect, he repeated the dose,
and again watched in silence. Still perceiving no
change in the condition of the patient, he began to
be alarmed lest by his imprudence he had hastened
his death. He paced the room, stamping his foot,
snapping his fingers, and menacing with clenched
fist the cup which had contained the liquid.
Suddenly he stopped to gaze upon the pale and
rigid face of Charney. " I have killed him," said he,
with a frightful oath, a mixture of French, Italian,
and Provencal.
At the sound of such language the priest raised
his head, but Ludovic, paying no attention to his
silent reproof, continued to walk, to stamp his feet,
to swear, to snap his fingers again and again; then
at last, worn out with action and emotion, he sank on
his knees beside the priest, murmuring his mea
culpa, and fell asleep in the midst of a prayer.
4 t dawn of day he still slept — the chaplain still
prayed. A burning hand placed on the head of
Ludovic caused him to start from sleep.
tt
Something to drink," said the sick man.
At the sound of this voice, which he had feared
aever to hear again, Ludovic opened wide his eyes.
End gazed with stupefaction upon Charney, whose
Sice was moist, and his body in a bath of perspira

PICCIOLA.

61

tion. Whether nature, aided by the vigorous ten*
perament of the prisoner, had brought about a
Balutary crisis, or the double dose administered by
Ludovic was gifted with a sudorific power, this pro*
fuse perspiration seemed to have at once restored
the sick man to life and reason. He gave orders
himself as to the means to be used for his restoration. Then turning to the priest, who still knelt
humbly at the bedside,
" l a m not dead yet, sir, you see," said he. " I f I
recover, as I hope that I shall, I beg you to say for
me to my trio of doctors, that it is not to them that
I render thanks, and that they may spare me their
visits and their science, senseless and lying like all
others. I understood enough of their discourse to
know that to a happy chance alone am I indebted
for my recovery."
" Chance," murmured the chaplain, his eyes fixed
upon the sentence inscribed upon the wall; " chance
is blind, and the sole author of creation." Then
pronouncing solemnly the last word, that Charney
himself had added, —
w
Perhaps!" said he, and went out.

C H A P T E R VII.
IN the intoxication of delight, Ludovic seemed
plunged in a stupor of ecstasy upon hearing the Count
speak; not that he paid the least attention to the
meaning of his words, — that was of no consequence,— but his dying man spoke, put together
ideas, lived! This was the cause of his emotion,
and of his overflowing satisfaction and pride. After
several moments of silent wonder, he exclaimed, —
" Vivat! vivat! what a wonder! He is saved! thanks
to whom ?" And he waved in the air the emptj
earthern cup, kissing it, and addressing to it the
most tender words in his vocabulary.
" Thanks to whom ? " said the prisoner; " thanks
to your good care, my honest Ludovic, perhaps. But
if I am really cured, the doctors will none the less
attribute it to their prescriptions, and the priest to
his prayers."
" Neither they nor I shall have the glory of it,
replied Ludovic, more and more excited. " A s to
the chaplain — who knows ? his prayers could onl;
do good — but the other, the other!"
" Who then is this savior, this unknown protect
or ?" said Charney, with a sort of indifference, for
he thought that Ludovic attributed his cure to some
saint.

PICCIOLA.

63

" It is net a protector, ,, said he, ( i but a protectress."
u
Ah, you mean the Madonna ? "
" No, it is not the Madonna, Signor Count. She
who has saved you from death is first and before all
the Signora Picciola! the Signorina Picciolina!
Piccioletta! my goddaughter — yes, my goddaughter, for it is I who first gave her her name — her
name of Picciola I Have you not said so ? Is she
not then my godchild? and am I not her godfather?
and proud I am of it, per Bacco I"
" Picciola!" cried the Count, starting up and resting his elbow on his pillow, a look of most lively
interest reanimating his countenance. " Explain,
my good Ludovic, explain yourself."
" You may affect astonishment," replied he, with
a wink of his eye, " as if it was the first time she
'had rendered you this service. When you are
attacked by this disease to which you are subject, is
it not always with this plant that you are cured?
You told me so, and, thank God, I remembered i t ;
for it seems that Picciola had more knowledge of the
case in one of her leaves than all the square-capped
doctors of Montpellier and of Paris combined. Yes,
my little goddaughter in this affair would have defied
a whole regiment of doctors — four battalions, four
hundred men in each! In proof of it, your three
Ignoramuses gave way, in beating a retreat, throwing
the blanket over your face, as if you were a dead
man; while Picciola—ah ; the brave little plant

64

PICCIOLA.

may God preserve her seed! — (as for me, I shall
take care not to forget the receipt, and if ever nrj
little Antonio falls ill, he shall drink a broth, and eat
a salad of it, though it is as bitter as chicory,) — she
had only to show herself, and behold! a complete
victory! Since you are cured, yes, cured, for now
you open your eyes wide — you laugh. A h ! vivat
IHllustrissima Signora Picciola !"
Charney took pleasure in the noisy and loquacious
joy of his worthy guardian. His return to life, and
the idea of owing it to that same plant which had
already charmed the long hours of his captivity,
gave birth in him to a lively sentiment of happiness,
and brought a smile to his still feverish lips, when
suddenly a cruelly painful idea crossed his mind.
" But how, my good Ludovic," said he, " has this
plant contributed to my cure ? How did you use
it ? " and a kind of terror agitated him as he asked
the question.
" Nothing more simple," quietly replied the jailer;
" a pint of water over a good fire — three bubbles —
the decoction is made ; that is all."
" Good God ! " cried Charney, sinking back upon
his pillow and pressing his hand to his brow, " you
have destroyed it! I cannot reproach you, my good
Ludovic, but oh, my poor Picciola ! what shall I do ?
tthat will become of me without her ? "
" Come, come, calm yourself," said Ludovic, coming
near him, and assuming a voice almost paternal, to
console the captive, overpowered with grief, like t

PICCIOLA.

65

child from whom one is about to take a favorite plaything. " B e calm, and do not uncover yourself as
you are doing. Listen to me," added he, all the
time occupied in adjusting the coverings and remedying the general disorder of the bed, caused by the
abrupt movements of the sick man. " Should I have
hesitated to sacrifice an herb to save a man ? What
do you think ? However, I could not decide to kill
her at one blow, and plunge the whole of her into
the kettle. Besides, that would have been useless.
I only begged a loan from her. With my wife's
scissors I clipped a quantity of leaves, of which she
had no need; some little branches without buds —
for now she has three buds ! ha ! that is handsome
of her! The operation was well done, and she did
not die of it. On the contrary, she seems in better
health, and you also. Now you must be good, be
quiet, keep in perspiration, get wholly well, and you
shall see her again."
Charney bent upon him a look of gratitude, and
offered him his hand. This time Ludovic did not
draw back, but pressed the hand of the Count with
emotion, tears starting in his eyes; but all at once,
reproaching himself without doubt for this infraction
of the invariable rule of conduct which he had
marked out for himself, the muscles of his face
lengthened, his voice took a harsher tone; then,
holding all the time in his hands the hand of the
prisoner, but trying to deceive him as to the motive
of his first movement, he said, " You see how you
5

66

PIOCIOLA.

are uncovering yourself again;" and as if with only
a professional interest, he covered the arm of the
Count with the blankets; then, after new instructions given in an official tone, he left the chamber,
humming a familiar air.

CHAPTER

VIII.

THAT day and the following an extreme state of
exhaustion, the natural result of the great crisis and
violent perspiration, rendered Charney incapable of
moving or thinking; but after the third day a sensible
amelioration was perceptible, and if, vanquished still
by weakness and illness, he was obliged to keep his
bed, at least he could look forward to a time not far
distant when he would be able to rise, walk, take
again his ordinary promenade, and see once more
his companion and his benefactress.
For to her all his thoughts were directed. He
could not explain to himself by what singular circumstances this feeble vegetation, thrown under his
feet in the court of the prison, had cured him of his
ennui, — he whom the splendor of the world and of
fortune had failed to divert, — and snatched him
from death, to which human science had condemned
him.
In his inability to apply the full force of his reasoning powers to solve this mysterious point, it was
with a sentiment of superstition that he attached
himself more and more to his Picciola. He could
not ground his gratitude to this inert and insensible
being upon any basis of reflection or intention ; yet

68

PICCIOLA.

he could not but give her his affection in exchangt
for the boon she had bestowed upon him. Imagination works where reason cannot; his became ex
cited, and his love for Picciola grew into a sort of
worship.
He persuaded himself that a supernatural tie
linked them one to the other; that there exist in
matter secret attractions and incomprehensible sympathies which ally the man to the plant. He who
refuses to acknowledge God is in danger of falling,
perhaps, into the belief of the puerilities of fetichism
and astrology. Picciola is his star, his madonna, his
talisman !
Why is it that one sees men, illustrious by their
learning or their genius, deny Providence, and yet
at the same time show themselves to be the slaves
of superstition ? It is that, blinded by human pride,
they would ascribe to themselves all their glory and
their strength; but the instinctive religious senti
ment, stifled in their heart, diverted from its natural
channel, nevertheless finds the light, but suffering
the imprint of their mistaken ideas. The homage,
which they arrest in its flight to heaven, falls back
to earth to find its object. They pretend to judge
and not believe; and their genius, narrow in its
greatness, contracting their horizon, permits them to
see only a few of the combinations of the grand
whole. They neglect the whole for the detail, be*
cause they believe themselves able in isolating tht
detail, to measure it and submit it to the analysis o'

PICCIOLA.

69

their feeble reason, not perceiving the point of juno*
tion where it is bound to the rest of the created
world ; for creation, the earth, the heavens, the stars,
the whole universe, are they not one being, immense,
complete, varied to infinity, which lives and palpi
tates under the puissant hand of God ?
Thus Charney, his imagination perhaps still excited by the fever, sees in nature only Picciola, and
to find analogies he arouses his memory, and asks of
it the history of miraculous plants, from the moly of
Homer, the palm of Latona, the ash of Odin, to the
golden herb which shines before the eyes of the
peasant of Brittany, or the flower of the thorn which
preserves the shepherdess of La Brie from evil
thoughts. He recalls the fig-tree of the Romans,
the Teutates of the Celts, worshipped under the figure of an oak; the vervain of the Gauls, the lotos of
the Greeks, the beans of the Pythagorians, the mallow of the Persian fire-worshippers, the mandragora
of the Hebrew priests, the marvellous effects of the
seal of Solomon, and the hazel wand. He remembers the azure campac of the Persians, which grew
for them only in Paradise; the sipakora, the fruit
of which gives to the eater two hundred years of
life ; the touba-tree, overshadowing with its gigantic
branches the celestial abode of Mahomet; the kaki,
that other divine plant, each flower of which is gifted
with a soul. He recalls the magic camalata, the verdant amrita, on which the Indians see hung fruits of
ambrosia ; the red tree of Kounboum, on each l«a/

70

PICCIOLA.

of which appears m relief one of the numerous characters of the alphabet of Thibet— vegetable poem
which changes and extends itself from season to season — eternal song in honor of Buddha, the Indian
Christ* He attaches a symbolic sense to that usage
of the Japanese, who give to their divinities for a
pedestal a heliotrope or water-lily, and assign the
birthplace of love to the bosom of a corolla. He
approves that propensity of the Chinese to imitate in
their clothing, their head-dresses, their habitations,
the form of their liserons and their campanulas. He
admires the religious scruples of the Siamese, who
go so far as to forbid the destruction of certain
plants, and even protect them against mutilation.
H e hears Charlemagne, legislator and philosopher,
from the height of his western throne, recommend
to his people the culture of flowers ; he even comes
to comprehend the tenderness which, according to
Elien and Herodotus, Xerxes felt for a plane-tree,
caressing it, pressing it in his arms, sleeping with delight under its shadow, decorating it with bracelets
and collars of gold, and lamenting bitterly when it
was necessary to leave it.
* According to the learned missionaries, Hue and Gabet, who, ia
the years 1844, '45, and '46, visited Tartary, Thibet, and China,
the tree of Kounboum, or of the ten thousand images, is not a symbol but a reality. It exists still in the same state, and they affirm,
*—they. Catholic priests, consequently interested to do justice to all
pious Buddhist deceit, — that, " after having examined it with the
most careful attention, it was impossible for them to discover th»
least fraud."

PICCIOLA.

71

That which heretofore excited his raillery and
contempt, and abased weak humanity before him,
now exalts it in his eyes; for he knows what grave
teachings can come from a stem or a branch; and
in the customs of idolatry, he sees now only the
gratitude which gave them birth. Has not a feeble
reed provided man with his first arrow, his first pen,
his first instrument of music, — his three great means
of conquest?
In this state of mind, already convalescent, Charney was sitting one morning in his chamber, which
he had not yet left since his illness, absorbed in
thought, when suddenly the door opened, and Ludovic, with a radiant face, entered.
" It is in flower ! " said he.
" W h a t ! Picciola?"
" Yes, Picciola, Piccioletta, my godchild."
" In flower!" exclaimed Charney, his eye sparkling and his face suffused; " in flower !" and springing towards the staircase, " I must see her," said he.
In vain the honest jailer assured him that it would
be imprudent for him to go out so soon, that he must
be patient for a day or two, that it was not late
enough in the day, that the air was cool, that a relapse was sure to be fatal; all was useless. All that
he could gain was Charney's consent to wait until
the sun was high enough to be present at the fete.
That hour, how slowly it creeps! and yet he occupies it as well as he can. For the first time since
Wis imprisonment he thinks of his toilet; yes, of

72

PICCIOLA.

his toilet, of his adornment in honor of Picciola, —
Df Picciola in blossom! His garments were tumbled, his hair in disorder, his beard long; he put all
that to rights. A mirror, until that moment forgotten, is drawn from his dressing-case; he shaves himself carefully, — and all to see her in blossom.
This is the convalescent's first breathing of the
air, the visit of the invalid to his physician, of the
debtor to his benefactress, the lover to his mistress.
When his toilet was completed, as he stood with
his eyes fixed upon the glass, he was astonished to
find, notwithstanding his illness, his eye less dull, his
expression less dejected, his brow less furrowed than
heretofore. He is reminded that he is still young,
and recognizes the truth that if there are bitter and
poisonous thoughts which mar even the envelope
that contains them, there are others gifted with a
power to reanimate it.
At the appointed moment Ludovic presented himself, and supported the Count to aid him in descending the steep steps of the winding stone staircase.
When the invalid entered the little court, the influtnce of the pure air and the light of heaven, or the
sensitive condition of the nervous system belonging
to convalescents, produced on him the impression
that the whole air was pervaded with the perfume of
bis flower, and to her he attributed all his sweet and
fresh sensations of returning life.
Of what use is the sweet perfume of flowers ? Da
tfiey themselves enjoy it ? No. Is it for the pleas

PICCIOLA.

73

are of the animals ? Who has ever seen a sheep or
a dog stop before a rose to breathe its sweetness ?
It is for man alone then that they pour forth their
fragrant treasures. Why ? To make him love them,
perhaps.
Charney was not so far wrong, after all, in believ
ing in a mysterious force which draws man to the
plant.
Now Picciola presented herself to him in all the
prestige of her beauty. She displayed to him her
brilliant and delicately shaded corolla ; white, purple,
and rose were blended in her large petals, bordered
with a silvery fringe, through which the rays of the
sun glancing gave the effect of a luminous halo
around the flower. Charney gazed upon it with delight ; he feared lest his breath should tarnish it, or
the touch of his hand blight it. He thought no
longer of analyzing it, or studying i t ; he admired
and enjoyed its beauty and its odor. But soon
another thought came to his mind, and the flower
JLO longer fixes his eye. He sees the traces of mutilation along the stem, — branches broken, leaves
mangled by the touch of the scissors. The wounds
are not yet healed. Then he feels that to her he
owes his life. A sentiment more vivid and sweeter
than admiration fills his heart, and the benefaction*
of Picciola make h : m forget her beauty and hei
perfume.

CHAPTER IX.
DURING the following days the convalescent had
the right, by the direction of the physicians, to take
his promenade in the court at the hour that best
suited him, and also to prolong it according to his
desire. This gave him the opportunity to resume
with ardor his interrupted studies.
Desiring to record in writing his observations
upon the plant, from the first day to the present
moment, he attempted to entice Ludovic to procure
for him pen, ink and paper. He was prepared to
see him at first frown, put on his air of importance,
require much pressing, and in the end yield, either
from the interest which he felt in his invalid and his
goddaughter, or from the desire of gain; for this
time it was a question of something to be furnished
lo a prisoner.
But it was not so. Ludovic at once received his
proposition very good-naturedly.
" Certainly, Signor Count, nothing is easier/' sai<5
he5 turning aside to give a few whiffs to his pipe,
W prevent it from becoming extinguished; for h*
)
always ceased to smoke when with Charney, to whom
the odor of tobacco was disagreeable. " I am fat

PICCIOLA.

75

from making any objection. But all those little
things are under the key of the governor, and not
under mine. If you wish for them, you have only
to address him a petition to that effect, and you may
get them."
Charney smiled, and was not discouraged.
" But to write that petition, the very things that I
ask for are necessary, — ink, pen and paper."
" That is true, Signor Count, that is true," replied
the jailer. " This is the way this matter of a petition is generally managed," added he, with a knowing
air, his head thrown back, his arms crossed behind
his back, — " I go to the governor and tell him that
you have a request to make, without explaining what,
— that is not my business, but yours and his. If he
cannot come himself to talk with you, he will send
one of his men. That man will hand you a pen and
a paper, stamped and signed, one sheet only; you
write on it, he standing by; he places his seal upon
it before you; you return him the pen, he carries
away the letter, and all is done."
" But, Ludovic, it is not to the governor that I
wish to be under obligation, but to you."
" To me ! then you do not know my orders," said
the jailer, resuming his harsh and severe manner.
He drew a long inspiration from his pipe, exhaled
$ie smoke slowly, as if to' Keep the Count at a distance, turned to the "right about," and went out
The next day when Charney returned to the subject,
He would do nothing but wink his eye and wag his
lead.

76

PICCIOLA.

Too proud to humble himself to ask a favor of the
governor, but too desirous of accomplishing his object to abandon it at once, from a toothpick the
prisoner made a pen; his razor, as well as it could,
transformed itself into a penknife; soot, dissolved
in water, and a golden cup from his dressing-case,
served him as ink and inkstand; and fine white cam«
brie handkerchiefs, remnants of his past luxury
took the place of paper.
It was thus that Charney, when separated from
Picciola, could still occupy himself in writing the
result of his observations.
How interesting and astonishing they were! What
a pleasure it would have been to him to impart them
to an attentive ear!
His neighbor, the catcher of flies, seemed to him
worthy to receive his confidences; this face, which
had seemed to him at first so sullen and frowning,
he had seen since expand with good-nature and
brighten with intelligence. When, from his little
window, the old man watched him and his Picciola,
with a half curious, half dreamy gaze, Charney felt
himself attracted towards him. A wave of the hand,
A smile, had even been exchanged between them
but the regime of the prison interdicted them from
addressing a word to each other, even to inquire
after their health. The explorer of the marvels of
mature was therefore obliged to keep to himself al.
his precious discoveries.
Among the multitude of these must be mentioned
8ie singular ability that he discovered in his flowei

PICCIOLA.

77

to turn towards the sun, and face it through all its
daily course, so as to appropriate more fully its lifegiving rays; and when the sun hid itself behind
clouds, and the rain threatened, her petals instantly
closed to shelter her, like a vessel furling its saila
before the storm.
" Is heat then so necessary to her ? " thought Chainey, " and why ? And why does she fear a slight
shower which would refresh her ? Oh, I have confidence in her now; she will explain all to me."
Picciola had already been to him a beneficent
physician; she could in need act as compass and
barometer; she was going to serve him as timepiece.
For by dint of constantly inhaling her fragrance, he
thought he could perceive that it varied at different
periods of the day. At first this phenomenon seemed
to him an illusion of the senses; but his reiterated
experiments assured him of its reality, and he soon
became able to designate with certainty the hour of
the day by the odor of the plant.*
The flowers had multiplied, and towards evening
Picciola breathed forth her sweetest perfumes. What
a delight it was then to the happy captive to draw
near to her. By means of several planks, which he
owed to the munificence of Ludovic, he had constructed a little bench, supported on four solid sticks
pointed at their extremity, and driven into the inter* The English botanist, Sir James Smith, notices this samo
in the Antirrhinum repens.— Flora Brittanua, Vol. [I
ft. 658.

reculiarcty

78

PICCIOLA.

Btices of the pavement. A rough plank made a back
against which he could lean, when he wished to think
and forget himself in living in the atmosphere of
his plant. There he felt more at ease than he had
ever done in former times on his silken couches;
there he would pass hours in meditation, recalling
the days of his youth, which had fled without happiness and without affection, lost in vain chimeras, in
a premature disenchantment.
It happened often, during these thoughts of the
past, that he fell into profound reveries, half waking,
half sleeping, — a condition of apathetic torpor of
the body, during which his over-excited imagination
peopled the court of his prison with delightful images.
Then he fancied himself again at those fetes,
where at one time ennui had pursued him, where he
lavished upon others the pleasures which he alone
had no power to enjoy.
He saw, in imagination, on a winter night, the
illuminated fapade of his old hotel in the Rue de
Verneuil. The noise of a thousand carriages sounded
in his ear; by the light of torches they entered his
circular court, each depositing in its turn at the steps
of the peristyle, covered with carpets and decorated
with hangings, the fashionable belles of the day
Wrapped in thick furs, under which rustled robes of
*ilk; the beaux of the court, with pointed hats, higk
cravats, and bunches of ribbons at the knee ; distin
guished artists, with bare throats, and short hair, and

PICCIOLA.

79

costume half Greek, half French; generals, with
plumes and tricolored sashes; men of science and
men of letters, with or without the distinctive collar
Of green. A crowd of lackeys were on all sides, defying, under their new liveries, the old-fashioned de
crees of the Convention.
In his salons he saw again, in inextricable confusion, all that was illustrious, or odd and eccentric,
at that epoch. The Eoman toga and the Greek
chlamys, brushed against the dress-coat and the
military uniform ; pumps with rosettes, boots, goldlaced, or with spurs, trod the same floor as the busk*
in of the soldier and that of the actor. Men of
the law, the pen, the sword, moneyed men, ministers,
contractors, artists and governors, whirled in this
eddy, side by side with the members of the Directory.
An actor is seen by the side of a bishop; a ci-devant
noble near a ci-devant pauper; the aristocracy and
the democracy joining hands; wealth and science
walking arm-in-arm. Such was society forming anew,
rallying all its elements around a common centre,
each one feeling itself too weak to form a circle of
its own. Thus it is with school-children, drawn together by similarity of age and the need of pleasure,
as they grow older they separate themselves little
by little from their playfellows, constrained, without
knowing it, by the powerful system of social order.
Charney smiled as he contemplated this phantasmagoria of manners, rank, and costumes.
That
which had been before for him a fruitful and bitter

80

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source of contemptuous thoughts of humanity, now
only aroused in him mockery of his own follies and
Wasted efforts.
Suddenly brilliant orchestras broke into loud, ani
mating and varied measures, and the ball opened
The remembered airs produced a more lively impression upon his senses than when he really heard
them. The light scintillating from innumerable
lustres, their prismatic reflection in the mirrors, the
soft and perfumed air of the ball-room or the banquet-hall, the odor of the viands, the noisy gayetv
of the guests, the whirl of the waltzers who rustled
against him in passing, the light and frivolous words
that crossed and mingled in confusion around him,
the echo of mirthful laughter, — all produced a sen*
sation of joyousness which was new to him.
Then graceful and elegant women, with ivory
shoulders and swan-like necks, arrayed in sumptuous robes, gauzes embroidered with gold, sparkling
with gems, passed before him, smiling as they greeted
him. He recognized them, for they were the constant guests and the ornaments of his splendid
soirees, when, rich and free, he was cited as one of
the fortunate ones of the earth.
There shone without rivals the proud Tallien,
arrayed in the classic robes of Greece, and wearing
jewels and rings of untold value even upon the toes
of her beautiful naked feet, scarcely imprisoned in
light golden sandals ; the charming Recamier, whom
Mhens would have made a divinity; and last, tht

PICCIOLA.

81

gentle and lovely Josephine, formerly Countess de
Beauharnais, who by the charm of her gracefulness
often passed for the most beautiful of the three.
Even beside these, many others shone with dazzling freshness, grace, and coquetry.
How fascinating they were to-day to Charney, in
their youth and beauty. How much more attractive
and lovely than heretofore. How happy he felt himself to be able to make a choice among such charming women!
He endeavored to do so; and after glancing hesitatingly at one and another, all at once, in the midst
of them, he distinguished one, not with uncovered
shoulders, or ornaments of diamonds.
Simple in attire and in her bearing, she stood with
drooping head, and seemed to shrink from notice.
She was a young girl, in a simple dress of white,
with nothing to heighten her beauty but her native
grace and the blushes that suffused her cheeks.
Charney did not know her, and yet, as he contemplated her, the others seemed to fade and disappear;
a gentle emotion took possession of him which he
could not account for.
But how much was his emotion heightened when
he saw in her dark hair one flower, her sole orna*
ment. That flower — it is the blossom of his plant
the flower of his prison!
He extended his arms towards the young girl
suddenly everything became dim oefore his eyes 5
once more the cmsic of the orchestra struck upon
6

82

PICCIOLA,

his ear with redoubled force; then the young gir)
and the flower seemed to melt one into the other
the open and fragrant petals encircled the lovely
face, and soon hid it entirely.
Already the walls of the ball-room, despoiled of
their hangings, became obscure, and in their place
was naught but a cloud of vapor. The lustres, gradually extinguished, detached from the ceiling, described a curve of light, fading away at the lower
extremity of the cloud. Heavy pavements replaced
the smooth and polished floor. Cool reason returned
in the place of delirium; memory kills the illusion,
reality destroys the dream.
The prisoner opens his eyes; he is sitting on his
bench, his feet on the pavement of the court; his
flower is before him, and the sun is sinking below the
horizon.
The first few times that he was attacked by this
sort of vertigo, Charney was filled with wonder. It
was always when he was seated on his bench, near
his plant, that he fell into these soothing reveries.
After a little reflection, he explained to himself the
phenomenon. Science had taught him that the odoi
exhaled by some flowers causes sometimes a slight
and voluptuous asphyxia. Now he understands how
close are the relations between him and his plant,
and the almost magic influence exercised by her upon
him.
The brilliant fetes at which he had in imagination
been present, Picciola had given him,

PICCIOLA.

83

But that young girl, so modest and pure, whose
unexpected presence had stirred in him a new and
delightful emotion, who is she ? Has he ever seen
her before ? And, like the other beautiful women, is
she not a reminiscence of his past? His memory
can recall nothing like her. Is it then, on the contrary, a revelation of the future ? But has he a future, and ought he to believe in revelations ? N o !
the young girl of the white robe and modest blushes,
the young girl at once so simple and so attractive,
who eclipsed and outshone her brilliant rivals, is
Picciola! — Picciola personified in a dream.
Well, she shall be his love ! He has no difficulty
in recalling the graceful form and ingenuous features
that the vision had borne. From henceforth it is
with this sweet image that he will lull his reveries,
that he will fill the void in his heart and his brain;
at least, before that lovely maiden, smiling phantom
evoked to break his solitude, the doors of his prison
will be forced to open ; she can visit him, come and
sit beside him, walk with him, follow him, smile upon
him, love him 1 She will live in his life, in his breath,
in his love; he will speak to her in his thought, and
closing his eyes see h e r ; they will be one, he will be
two!
Thus to the cherished studies of the captive of
Fenestrella succeeded the not less absorbing charm
of illusion, and he plunged deepei and deeper into
that sphere of poetry from which one can only
emerge, like the bee from the bosom of flowers, ladon

84

PICCIOLA.

with perfume and with a harvest of honey. Side by
Bide with his real life, he lived his life of imagination,
the complement of the other, and without which man
enjoys but half the gifts of the Creator.
Now his time is divided between Picciola the plant
and Picciola the maiden. After reason and labof
fee lias pleasure and love.

CHAPTER

X.

PURSUING his investigating experiments on the
process of inflorescence, Charney was each day more
and more enraptured by the orderly prodigies of
Nature. But his eyes were unable to penetrate into
many mysteries so minute as to be indiscernible to
the naked eye. He was fretting under this inability,
when Ludovic presented him from his neighbor, the
Italian conspirator, a powerful magnifying-glass, by
the aid of which he had been enabled to count
eight thousand ocular facets on the cornea of a fly.
Charney was overwhelmed with joy.
Thanks to this instrument, parts of the plant before
imperceptible sprang forth to his sight, a hundred
times their ordinary size. Then he made, or hoped
to make, great strides in the path of discovery.
He analyzed in detail the external envelope of his
flower; he learned that the brilliant color of the
petals, their crimson spots, the stripes of velvet or
of watered satin which adorn their base, or fringe
their outline, are not there only to delight the eye
by their beauty, but also to divide or reflect the rays
of the sun, to diminish or augment their force, according to the necessities of the flower during the
grand process of fructification.

56

PICCIOLA.

These shining and varnished surfaces are doubtless glandulous collections of absorbent vessels,
charged with the duty of breathing the air, the light,
and humid vapors, for the nourishment of the seeds;
for without light, no color; without air and heat, no
life. Moisture, heat, light, — behold, then, of what
vegetation, the marvel of the earth, is composed, and
behold also what it restores to the earth at its death.
Without his knowledge, often during these hours
of study and reverie, Charney had two attentive
spectators, who watched all his movements, and b}
sympathy shared all his emotions, — Girhardi and
his daughter. The latter, educated by a deeply religious father, living a contemplative and secluded
life, presented one of those natures in which all
lofty and holy principles are united. With her
beauty, her virtues, the graces of her mind and person> she could not fail to have had admirers; gifted
with a sensibility deep and expansive, she seemed
formed to be peculiarly susceptible to the sentiment of love; but if some passing fancies had, when
she was in the gay society of Turin, for an instant
ruffled the serenity of her spirit, they had all been
absorbed in one great grief—the captivity of her
father.
Was it possible for her to love with the freedom
of a happy heart, she who in her double worship,
religious and filial, saw her Saviour on the cross, and
her father in prison ? Not that the fair daughter of
Turin abandoned herself easily to sadness and met
wieholy. All her duties were a pleasure, all her sacri

PIOCIOLA.

87

ficus a delight. But is it among the happy ones of
the world that she finds her pleasure ? Where she
can dry a tear and awaken a smile, there is her
place, there her pride, there her triumph! One
alone at Fenestrella has been the recipient of her
soothing care.
But since she has seen Charney, she has felt for
him both interest and compassion. He is a captive
like her father, and is near her father. He has
nothing in the world to love but a plant; and how
much he loves it!
Perhaps the noble countenance and fine person
of the Count enhanced the pity of the young girl;
but if she had known him in the time of his prosperity, when he was surrounded by the false shows
of happiness, she would not have distinguished him
from others. That which charmed her in him was
his isolation, his misfortune, his resignation. She
has instinctively bestowed upon him her friendship
and even her esteem, for in her ignorance she has
placed misfortune among the virtues.
This admirable girl, as bold when, a good deed was
to be done as she was timid before a bold glance,
ignorant of the danger, constantly encouraged and
stimulated her father in his advances towards CharDey.
At last, one day Girhardi, showing himself at the
window, not content with the usual salutation of the
Hand to the Count, motioned him to approach as
hear as possible, and moderating the tone of his

88

PICCIOLA.

voice, as if in apprehension of being overheard, lie
Entered into the following dialogue with him.
" I have perhaps good news to tell you, sir."
" And I, sir, have thanks to render for the micro**
scope you have been so kind as to lend me."
" I cannot even claim the merit of the idea; it
was my daughter's thought."
"You have a daughter, and they accord you the
favor of seeing her ? "
" Yes, I am a father, and I bless God every day.
My poor child took a great interest in you, my dear
sir, when you were ill, and since, in watching you
lavish s^ much care upon your plant. Have you
never noticed her at the grating ? "
" In fact — I believe " —
" But in speaking to you of my daughter, I forget
to tell you the great news. The Emperor is about
to return to Milan, where he is to be crowned King
of Italy."
" King of Italy ! Ah ! then, sir, he will be still
more your master and mine. As to the microscope,"
pursued Charney, who had not been much diverted
from his first thought by the great news, not suspecting a sequel to it, " you have deprived yourself of it
for a long time; pardon me, you will permit me to
retain it a little longer to complete some experiments; however, I will return it to you, if"—
a
I do not need i t ; I have others," said the Italian,
•rith a benevolent smile, divining from the tone of
Charney's voice how much it would cost him to par

PICCIOLA.

39

with the instrument; — "keep it, sir, keep it as a
souvenir of a companion in captivity, who feels fof
you, I beg you to believe, a lively interest."
Charney would have expressed his gratitude to the
generous man, but he interrupted him.
" But let me finish that which I have to tell you ; **
and, lowering his voice, " It is said that pardons will
be given in honor of the Emperor's new crown.
Have you friends at Milan or Turin ? Is there any
way of inciting them to action ? "
The Count sadly gave a negative sign, and said,
" I have no friends."
" No friends," repeated the old man, with a glance
full of commiseration; " do you then distrust your
fellow-men ? Friendship is not wanting to those who
have faith in it. But I have friends, friends whom
even adversity has not shaken ; they might perhaps
do for you what they cannot yet do for me."
" I will ask nothing from General Bonaparte,"
replied the Count, in a hard, proud tone, in which
surged up all his old bitterness.
" Hush ! speak lower! I think I hear footsteps —but n o " —
There was a moment's pause; then the Italian
continued, with an inflection of voice, by which the
rebuke was softened as if in passing the lips ot a
father, —
" Dear companion, you are still exasperated. I had
oelieved that the studies to which you have devoted
yourself for several months had appeased in you thai

90

PICCIOLA.

hatred whi^h God reprobates, and which perverts a
man's whole being. Have not the kindly virtues of
your flower healed the wounds of an unkind world ?
This Bonaparte that you seem to hate I have perhaps more reason to complain of than you, for my
son died for having served him."
" And you attempted to avenge your son !" interrupted Charney, with warmth.
" I see that these false rumors have reached even
you," said the old man, raising his noble head to
heaven, as if to call God to witness. " I revenge
myself by a crime ! No ; but in the first moments
of my grief, it is true, I could not control myself
and while the people of Turin saluted the conqueror
with acclamations of joy, I mingled with their
' vivats' my cries of despair. I was arrested ; I had
a knife about me. Base wretches, in order to curry
favor with their master, found no difficulty in persuading him that I had some design against his life.
They called me an assassin, and I was only an agonized father who had just learned the death of his
Bon. Well! I can understand that Bonaparte was
Received, and that he is not a bad man ; he has not
put you or me to death. If he restores my liberty,
that will be to repair only one error in my case;
however, I should bless him, — not that I cannot
endure my captivity. Full of faith in Providence, I
am resigned to all. But my prison weighs upon my
daughter; it is for her that I wish to be free, to pu*
tn end to her exile from the world, that she maj

PICCIOLA.

91

participate in the pleasures that belong to youth. Is
Ihere no being who interests you, no loving woman
who weeps for you, and for whom you would be
happy to sacrifice the pride with which your oppression inspires you? Come, authorize my friends to
Bpeak in your behalf."
Charney smiled. " No woman weeps for me," said
he. " Why should I wish for the world where I was
less happy than I am here ? But were I to find there
friends, fortune, and happiness, I yet would say no!
a thousand times no! if to gain it I must humble
myself before the power which I have plotted to
overthrow."
" Then you cut yourself off from all hope."
" Never will I salute with the title of Emperor him
who was my equal."
" Take care that you do not foolishly sacrifice your
future to a sentiment prompted perhaps more by
vanity than patriotism ; — but hark," again said Girhardi, " for this time I am not mistaken; some one
is coming; — adieu."
And he drew back from the grated window.
" Thanks, thanks for the microscope," cried Char«
Bey, before he had entirely disappeared from sight.
At that moment the door of the little court creaked
Dn its hinges, and Ludovic entered, bearing the daily
allowance of the prisoner. Seeing him pensive and
iistrait, and not wisning to disturb nim, he contented
himself with rattling the dishes which he carried,
too let him know that his dinner was ready. After

92

PICCIOLA.

arranging all in the chamber of the prisoner, he re«
tired, saluting as he passed Monsieur and Madame,
— the man and the plant, as he said sometimes.
" The microscope is mine," thought Charney, " but
how have I merited the kindness of this stranger ?9
and seeing Ludovic crossing the court, — " even thi
man has gained my esteem; under the rough exterior beats a noble heart, I am sure. There are then
men good and tender-hearted; but where do they
come to take refuge ? "
He seemed to hear a voice reply,—"It is because
misfortune has taught you to appreciate a kindness,
that men seem to you less worthy of your contempt
What have these two men done ? One has watered
your plant for you without your knowledge, the other
has furnished you with the means of analyzing it and
knowing it better."
" O h ! " said Charney to himself, " the heart is
not mistaken; there is on their part true generosity."
" Yes," replied the voice, " but it is because that
generosity is exercised towards you, that you render
them justice. If Picciola had not been born, of
these two men one would have been now in your
eyes an imbecile old man, devoted to degrading
occupations; the other a coarse being, actuated by
mean and sordid avarice. In your world of other
days, did you love any one or anything, Sir Count
N o ; your heart, as your thought, was given up ta
isolation. Here, it is because you love Picciola, thai

PICCIOLA.

93

Ihese two men have loved you; it is through her
that they have come to you."
And Charney regarded by turns his plant and his
precious microscope. Napoleon, Emperor of the
French, King of Italy! That terrible formula, one
half of which had formerly sufficed to make him a
furious conspirator, scarcely now made any impression upon his mind.
What to him are the triumphs of the new ruler
of the nation and of the liberties ol Europe ? An
insect buzzing menacingly about his flowers caused
him more distress and care than all tne invasions of
the new empire I

CHAPTER XL
H E resumed his labors; armed with his glass,
now his own, he reiterated his observations, and ex
tended the field of his discoveries, until enthusiasm
fairly took possession of him. It must be said, how
ever, that, inexperienced as he was in analysis, ignorant of first principles, and without sufficiently powerful instruments, sometimes insensibly the spirit of
system and of paradox mingled with his spirit of
inquiry.
Thus he invented a thousand theories upon the
circulation of the sap, upon the manner in which it
rises, diffuses itself, is transformed, without suspecting its double current; likewise, upon the variety in
the coloring of the plant, the different aroma of the
stem, the leaves, and the flowers, upon the gum and
the resins distilled by plants, also upon the wax and
honey drawn from them by the bees. At first he
found answers to all his questionings; but the theo
ries of to-day overthrew those of yesterday, and he
was delighted with his impotence, since it forced hint
to exercise all the faculties of his mind and imagination, and prevented him from looking forward to the
end of this attractive occupation.

PICCIOLA.

95

One day he triumphed in recording the most important of his observations.
He had heard heretofore, but only with a mocking
spirit, of the loves of flowers, that ingenious and sublime discovery of Linnaeus. Aided by his microscope, he gave himself up entirely to this new series
of studies ; he watched patiently, and penetrated at
last these mysteries.
He perceived a movement of life and love in all
parts of the flower, which seemed for an instant to
feel the animation of thinking, loving human beings!
Astonished, confounded, Charney thought himself
still dreaming. By analogy, rising from the plant to
the animal, he embraced the entire scale of creation
in its harmony, in its immensity ! He felt as if the
whole secret of the universe was in his possession!
His eyes grew dim; the instrument fell from his
hand; the astonished philosopher fell back upon his
rustic seat, crossed his arms, then, after long meditation, addressing himself to his plant, " Picciola," said
he, " I had in other days the whole world in which to
roam. I had numerous friends, — I was surrounded
by learned men of all sorts,— and never one of these
savants has taught me as much as thou ; not one of
my friends, or rather of the men who usurped that
title, has rendered me the good offices that I have
received from thee. In this circumscribed spot,
where thou livest between two stones, pacing back
and forth near thee, without losing sight of thee, I
have thought more, felt more, observed more, than

96

PICCIOLA.

In all my extended travels through Europe. How
blind was I ! When thou, so pale, so feeble, so languishing, didst present thyself to me, I expected
nothing from thy coming, — and it was a companion
who came to me, — a book which was opening to
me, — a world which revealed itself to my eyes
This companion has soothed my weariness, and made
it disappear; she has lent a new charm to that existence which she was destined to preserve ; she has
taught me to know men, and reconciled me to them.
This booh teaches me to despise none; it convicts
me of my ignorance, and abuses my pride ; it forces
me to believe that knowledge, like virtue, is only to
be acquired by humility; that it is necessary to descend in order to rise ; that the first step of that im *
mense ladder, whose top we think to reach, is buried
m the ground, and it is there that we must commence.
It is the book of light! Written in living characters,
*n a language yet mysterious for me, it offers me sub*
lime enigmas to solve, of which each word is a consolation. This world is that of truth, one and absolute;
it is intelligent creation; it is the summary and criterion of the eternal and celestial world, the revelation
of that infinite law of love which governs the universe, which by gravitation holds atoms and suns,
which links in one band the plant and the stars, the
insect which crawls on the ground and the man who
raises his brow to heaven to find — his Creator
Whoever he may be."
Charney, violently agitated, paced rapidly th«

PICCIOLA.

97

2ourt; thought succeeded to thought in his brain;
conviction struggled in his conscience; then he returned to Picciola, gazed upon her with emotion,
raised his eyes for a moment to heaven, and murmured these words, —
" Powerful God ! source invisible whence flows all
harmony, all life, too much false science has obscured
my reason, too many sophisms have hardened my
heart, so that Thou canst not easily penetrate it. I
cannot yet hear thee, but I call t h e e ; I cannot see
thee, but I seek thee."
Entering his chamber, he read on the wall, —
" God is naught but a word!"
He added, — "That word, may it not solve the
grand enigma of the universe ?"
There was here still an expression of doubt; but
was not to doubt, for that haughty spirit, to denounce
his former negation and to turn back in the false path
which he had been pursuing ? Now, it is no longer
to himself alone that he looks for theories to support
his already tottering philosophy; he has no longer
faith only in his own strength and reason, and yielding himself to those new emotions in which he finds
BO sweet a charm ; it is to Picciola that he turns for
a belief— a God— a support. And anew he interrogates her with fervor, that the remainder of obicurity which environs him may be dissipated*
7

CHAPTER

XII.

THUS passed his days. After many hours wfcollj
fcvoted to study and analysis, he sought agreeable
relaxation and pastime in turning from Picciola the
plant to Picciola the maiden.
When the perfume of his flowers was wafted to
him in abundance, when his head was heavy, and his
eyes closed to shut out the dazzling sunlight, he
would say to himself, " Picciola will give a fete today."
Then, yielding himself to his reveries, he immediately fell into that state, half sleeping, half waking,
peopled with visions that a ray of reason was still
able to direct.
Oh! is not this one of the most intoxicating enjoyments that man can know, — the power to direct his
dreams, and live at will in that other life, where the
events succeed each other with such rapidity, where
ages cost but one hour of existence, where a magic
reflection seems to color all the actors in the drama
which is passing, where the emotions only are real
There, all stern reality disappears, leaving only the
pure essence of things.
Do you wish for music? Harmonious concerts
tre wafted to your ear without the grating sound ol

PICCIOLA.

99

the preparatory tuning of instruments, the distorted
faces of the musicians, or the ungraceful forms of
their instruments; this is the life of the soul without
the body, — pleasure without regrets, the rainbow
without the storm.
Charney abandoned himself to his illusions. Faith
ful to the sweet image of Picciola, it was her that he
called; she it was that presented herself to him always
in the same form, with the same grace,—- young, modest, charming, — appearing to him sometimes in the
midst of his former companions of science or pleasure, sometimes near the sole beings that he had
loved, his mother and sister, long since dead. She
renewed for him scenes full of tenderness, ineffable
memories of youth and home, — her presence adding
to them new sweetness.
Sometimes she introduced him suddenly into a
modest mansion, which was pervaded with an air of
comfort and good taste. The guests he met here
were unknown to him, but they welcomed him with
smiles, and he at once felt himself at home as at the
paternal fireside.
After having recalled to life his extinct family,
his joys of the past, she evoked yet another family
which might exist for Charney, and bring to him
joys in the future. He could not explain it to himself, but at his waking he was inspired with a new
confidence in his destiny, and he regularly kept a
record on his journa? of fine cambric of the events
of his dreams, — the only happy events of his life
save his captivity.

100

PICCIOLA.

It happened however that, once, Picciola, in one
of these fetes where he was accustomed to find neat
her happiness and calm, caused him a sudden fright
Afterwards he could never recall it without believing
in revelations, and the truth of presentiments.
This is what happened. The perfume of the
plant indicated the sixth hour of the evening. They
had never been more powerful; thirty opened flowers combined to produce that magnetic atmosphere
under the influence of which Charney slumbered.
In his dream, separating himself from the crowd,
he was breathing the air on a green esplanade, where
his darling phantom alone had followed his steps.
Piccipla advanced smiling towards him, and he in
a contemplative attitude was admiring the supple
grace of the young girl, the light undulations of the
drapery of her white robe which indicated the harmony of her movements, and the wav«*s of her dark
hair, adorned as usual by his beloved flower. Suddenly he saw her pause — she totters — she extends
to him her arms — the seal of death is on her brow!
He would spring towards her — an obstacle against
which he struggles in vain holds him chained — he
utters a cry and awakes. Awake, he hears another
cry respond to his own — yes, a cry — the voice of
a woman.
Nevertheless Charney finds himself in the courts
on his bench, near t^s plant; but now it is to hi*
wide-opened and bodily eyes that a second appa«
ntion of a young girl appears at the little grated

PICCIOLA.

101

wii i o w : at first this pensive and lovely face, half
in shadow, seems to undulate in a vague indistinctness ; but gradually it becomes clear to him, and he
gees her penetrating gaze fixed upon him; he rises,
approaches, and all at once the sweet vision disappears, or rather the young girl flies.
Rapid as was her flight, Charney had caught a
glimpse of her features, her hair, her form, her
white robe. He stood motionless ; he thought that
his awaking was not complete, and that the insurmountable obstacle which in his dream separated
him from Picciola was the prison-grating.
Ludovie at that moment hastened towards him
with an air of great alarm, and finding him still
agitated, said, —
"Signor Count, has your illness attacked you
again? Parbleu! we must send for the doctors
again, for it is the order; but be easy; Madame
Picciola and I, in spite of them, will undertake your
cure."
" I am not ill," replied Charney, scarcely recoveied from his emotion. " Who has made you
think*—
" The fly-catcher's daughter — she saw you, heard
j\m cry, and hastened to call me."
Charney became thoughtful. It then came to his
mind for the first time that a young girl was some*
ames in that part of the fortress.
" T h e resemblance which I fancied between the
Granger and Picciola is only an illusion of my senses,

102

riCCIOLA.

n common and simple optical effect," said he to him*
self. " Often, thus by a phenomenon of vision the
eye retains for some time the image of the object
upon which it has been resting. It is a strange
thing, though, to see this sweet vision pass from the
illusory to the real life — from the dream to the
awakening. The image of Picciola, however, was
not perfectly reproduced in the young girl of the
prison, — she wore no flower in her hair."
While comparing them, he recalled what Girhardi
had told him of the interest his daughter had felt in
him. She had pitied him during his illness ; it was
to her that he owed the possession of his precious
microscope; she was interested in his labors and
his studies; even now, in hastening to send Ludovic
to him, she had given another evidence of her good
will.
And Charney, his heart filled with gratitude, felt
impelled to manifest it. But how ?
Not without hesitation, not without reproaching
himself, as if in this moment he rendered himself
guilty by a profanation, he broke, and gathered
silently, and with a trembling hand, a flower from
his plant.
" Formerly," said Charney to himself, " how prodigally have I wasted gold, to adorn with pearls and
diamonds brows vowed to shame and falsehood. To
how many deceitful women and lying friends have
I thrown my fortune, caring for nothing but the impulses of my own heart, which I gave to be tram

FICCIOLA.

103

pled under Jieir feet as under my own. Ah ! if the
worth of an object depends upon the value that the
owner attaches to it, I swear that never was offered
by me a gift more precious than this which I take
from thee to-day, Picciola ! " And placing the little
branch in the hands of the jailer, — " My good Ludovic, present this from me to the daughter of my
venerable fellow-captive. Say to her that I thank
her for her interest in me, and that the Count de
Charney, poor and a prisoner, possesses nothing of
more worth to offer her."
Ludovic received the flower with an air of stupefaction. He had come to enter so fully into the
love which the prisoner felt for his plant, that he
could not conceive that so slight a service could
gain for the daughter of the fly-catcher a mark of
such munificence.
"Well, after all, by the head of Saint Pascal!"
said he, as he went out, " they have only seen my
godchild from a distance; they will have a chance
to judge now whether she is lovely and whether hei
odor is sweet."

CHAPTER XIII.
As for Charney, the time was near at hand when
he would have to make many other sacrifices of that
kind, for the epoch of fructification had arrived for
Picciola. Some of her flowers had already lost
their brilliant petals; the stamens having become
useless had fallen, as heretofore the cotyledons, when
the first leaves, having arrived at the age of strength,
were able to do without their care. The ovary containing the germ of the seeds commenced to swell
under the enlarged calyx. The maternal flowers
despoiled themselves of their brilliancy, as women
grow indifferent to showy adornment when the sacred cares of maternity devolve upon them.
Charney prepared for new observations, the grandest and most sublime, without doubt, that he had yet
made, for they attach to the duration of created races,
to the reproduction of life.
Already, in analyzing a bud, which had been detached from the stem by the bite of an insect, he hac{
had a glimpse of this primitive germ, this feeble
embryo, which owes its development to the loves of
the flowers. Admirable foresight! wonderful ar
rangement of Nature, which science has yet been

PICCIOLA.

105

anable to explain ! Now it is the birth of the eon>
pleted being that is in question, of that seed, whose
narrow envelope contains the entire plant; phenomenon for which the others have only been the preparation. The moment has come for the observer to
watch the gestation of the vegetable egg through all
its epochs, in the bud, in the brilliantly arranged
flower, under the calyx discrowned of its petals. It
would be necessary for him again to mutilate Picciola; but will she not easily repair her losses ? On
all sides, at the joints of the stems, under the axillas
of the leaves, new shoots announce a future flowering ; of these Charney will take tender care.
To-morrow then he will commence his work.
The next day he took his place on his seat with
the gravity of a man who undertakes difficult exper*
iments, whose success may be long delayed. At the
first glance at his plant he was surprised at the state
of languor manifest in all its parts. The flowers,
drooping on their stems, seemed no longer to have
power to turn toward the sun, and the leaves seemed
to have lost their lustrous verdure.
Charney thought at first that a violent storm was
gathering, and immediately prepared his mats to
defend Picciola from the too rude attacks of wind
or hail. But the sky is cloudless, the air serene, and
the song of the lark is heard from afar in the blue
fpace.
His brow contracts witn anxiety. After a mowent's reflection he exclaims, " It is water that slit

106

PICCIOLA.

needs!" He runs to bring some from his chamber,
and kneeling before his plant, raising the lower
leaves to moisten its root, he is struck motionless
with consternation. His gaze remains fixed on the
ground; he lets the water-pitcher fall, and seems
stupefied by what he sees. He discovers the source
of the evil. Picciola is dying!
While she has multiplied her flowers and her perfumes for his study and pleasure, her stem also has
expanded. Crowded at its base between two stones
of the pavement, strangled under a double pressure,
the stem had swollen just above the point where it
emerges from the ground, but the friction against
the rough edges of the granite had soon mangled it,
and the nourishing sap of the plant was exuding
from several fissures.
Picciola lacks earth; exhausted, without sap, she
will die, if prompt succor is not given her. She is
dying! Charney sees it. There is but one means
of saving her,—that is, to lift the pavements which
press upon her; but can he do it ? Without tools
his efforts will be vain.
He sprang towards the little door of entrance,
and, knocking vehemently, called Ludovic. At last
he appeared.
At the recital, and the sight of the disaster, he
Btood confounded; but notwithstanding his tenderness for his goddaughter, he responded to the prayen
of Charney — who besought him with frantic suppli
nations to lift the pavements — only by these words

PICCIOLA.

107

which he accompanied with a long-drawn sigh and
ft shrug of the shoulders, —
" And what of my orders, Signor Count ? "
This time the prisoner offered him not only one
Ujou from his precious dressing-case, but the entire
case with all that it contained. Ludovic drew himself up, folded closely his arms upon his breast, and
putting on the air and manner of the jailer, and his
tone half Provengal, half Piedmontese, said, —
"Per Bacco ! Were you to offer me a fortune ; —
I am an old soldier, and I know my duty ; — address
yourself to the commandant."
" N o ! " exclaimed Charney; "rather will I tear
my hands in pieces in lifting and breaking the
stones."
" We shall see; at all events, do as you please."
And Ludovic, who in entering had held his thumb
over his pipe, keeping it behind him while addressing the prisoner, replaced it bruskly between his
lips, relighting it by a strong inspiration, and turned
to go out. Charney detained him.
"My good Ludovic, you whom I have always
found so compassionate, can you do nothing for me
— nothing for her ? "
" Tonnerref" said he, trying by oaths to defend
himself from the emotion which was taking possession of him; " let me alone, you and your cursed
gillyflower I I ask pardon of the poor thing; it is
«*o fault of hers that you are so diabolically obsti
nate. What! you have the neart> then, to let he*
lie thus without help ? "

108

PICCIOLA.

" But what is to be done ? "
"Address yourself to the commandant, I telj
you."
"Never!"
" Well, if you won't do it yourself, let me speak
to him."
" I forbid you to do it," cried Charney.
" H o w ! you forbid m e ! " replied the jailer
" W h a t ! am I to receive orders from you? If I
choose to speak to him— N o ! I will not speak
to him. After all, what business is it of mine.
Let her die, let her live, what do I care? Good
night"
" B u t y«_ar commandant, would he understand
me ? " said the Count, suddenly softening.
" Why not ? Do you take him for a barbarian ?
Explain it nicely to him with pretty phrases — not
too long; you are a savant, now is the time to use
your learning. Why should not he understand your
love for your plant: I understood it very well. Besides, make yourself easy; I shall be there. I will
tell him what a good medicine it is for all sorts of
ailments; he has not good health — he has the
rheumatism now — that is lucky — he will understand better " —
Charney hesitated still. Ludovic, with a wink of
his eye, pointed to the fainting Picciola. The Count
gave a sign of assent, and Ludovic went out.
In a few moments a man, in costume half civil
kalf military, brought to the prisoner an escritoire

PICCIOLA.

109

and a sheet of paper bearing the stamp of the com
mandant. Then, as Ludovic had told him, the man
stood by while Charney wrote his request; took u
from him, sealed it, saluted him, and carried away
the escritoire.
You smile perhaps with contempt in seeing the
pride of the noble Count humbled so easily, and that
haughty will yield at the sight of a fading flower.
Have you then forgotten what Picciola is to the prisoner ? Do you know what effect isolation and captivity will produce upon the proudest and most determined spirit ? This act of weakness with which you
reproach him, did he descend to it when he himself
was broken down by suffering, deprived of air, of
liberty, crushed between the stones of his prison, as
his plant between two pavements? N o ! But between her and him are established mutual relations,
sacred engagements: she has saved him from death;
now in his turn he must save her !
The aged Girhardi saw Charney pacing the little
court with agitated step and gestures of impatience
and expectation. How slow the answer seemed to
him in coming! Three hours had passed since his
message to the governor, and the plant became every
moment more exhausted by the loss of its sap.
Charney would have seen his own blood flow more
salmly.
The old man attempted to console him and give
Vim hope. More experienced in the knowledge of
plants and their maladies, he showed him bow ha

no

PICCIOLA

might close the wounds of Picciola, and preserve hei
from at least one of the dangers with which she was
menaced.
According to his advice, Charney, with a mixture of
inoss, finely chopped straw and moistened earth, com
posed a mastic which he applied to the wound. His
handkerchief, torn into strips, furnished him with
ligatures to keep it in place. In this occupation
another hour passed; but the answer came not.
When Ludovic entered the court at the usual dinner-hour, his brusk and business-like countenance
announced no good news. He scarcely deigned to
answer the questions of the prisoner, even by short
and sharp replies. " Diavolo ! can't you wait ? You
are in a great hurry. Give him time to write."
He seemed to have a presentiment of the role he
would have to play, and prepared himself in advance.
Charney could not dine. He strove to control
his impatience while waiting the sentence of life or
death for Picciola; and to strengthen his courage ;
he constantly reiterated to himself that the governor
could not, without being a most cruel man, refuse
Uim so simple a request.
His impatience increased, however, more and more
with the delay; he was surprised at it, as if the commandant could have no other affairs so pressing as
that. At the slightest sound his eyes turned towards
the little door by which he expected to receive his
aiessage.
The evening came — no answer ! Night — notb
wg! He could not close his eyes.

CHAPTER

XIV.

T H E next day that response, so earnestly expected,
was at last brought to him. The commandant said,
in a dry and laconic style, that no change "could be
made in the walls, fosses, or fortifications of the citadel, without the express authorization of the governor
of Turin; that, on the demand of Monsieur Charney,
he would refer the matter to his Excellency; "for"
added he, " the very pavement of a prison court is a
wall"
Charney stood confounded, after reading this mes«
sage. To make the preservation of a flower a ques*
tion of state! a displacement of fortifications ! wait
the decision of the governor of Turin ! wait an age,
when a day's delay was death! Would not this governor in his turn refer it to the minister, the minister
to the senate, the senate to the Emperor ? A h ! how
at this moment his contempt for men was reawakened! Ludovic seemed to hirr only the agent of
the executioner. At the cry of his despair, one responds in formal official language, the other urges
\i& military orders.
Charney drew near to the invalid, whose brilliancj
was tarnished, whose color was fading. He gazed

112

PICCIOLA.

Upon her with sadness. It was the happiness, the
poetry of his life which was departing. Her perfume indicated a mistaken hour, like a watch whose
mainspring is broken; each corolla-folded upon itself
has ceased to turn to the sun.
In the midst of these heart-breaking reflections,
the voice of his fellow-captive reached him again.
" Dear sir/' said the good old man, with his paternal accent, lowering his tone, and pressing his face
close to the bars, to be as near him as possible, " if
she dies, and I fear she must, what will you do alone,
all alone ? What occupations can interest you after
that which has such a charm for you ? You too will
die from ennui. Solitude, once interrupted, becomes
afterwards so heavy. You will not be able to endure
it. It is as it would be with me, if they should now
separate me from my daughter, that guardian angel
whose smile has power to console me for all. As for
your plant, the wind from the Alps has brought you
the seed, or a bird in passing has dropped it from
his beak into the court; but even if the same circumstance should bring you another Picciola, it would
only be to renew your regret for the loss of the first,
for from the beginning you would only look forward
to its death from the same cause. Believe me, my
dear sir, and consent that my friends act for you.
Yield at last. Your liberty may be more easily ob*
•ained than you think. I hear already of many traitf
of clemency and generosity in the new Emperor
He is even now at Turin, and Josephine accompa
uies him "

PICCIOIA.

113

He pronounced the name of Josephine as if the
certainty of success attached to it.
" At Turin ? " exclaimed Charney, raising quickly
his head, which had before been bent upon his
breast.
" At Turin for the last two days," replied the old
man, delighted to see that his good advice was not
rejected as it had been before.
" And what is the exact distance from Fenestrella
to T u r i n ? "
" By the main road through Giaveno and Avig*
liano, nearly seven leagues."
" And in how short a time can the journey be accomplished ? "
" Four or five hours at tfre least; for just now the
route is obstructed by troops, baggage-wagons, and
the* carriages of all who are to be present at the approaching fetes. The road which winds through the
valley, following the river, is longer, without doubt;
but I believe it will take less time."
" Tell me, sir, if through your communication with
the world outside it would be possible for you to find
some one who would go to Turin to-day — this very
morning ? "
" My daughter can procure a messenger."
u
And you say that General Bonaparte—the First
Consul" —
" The Emperor," gently interposed Girhardi.
"Yes, the Emperor—the Emperor is yet at Turin;
you are sure?" continued Charney, absorbed in OD6
8

114

PICCIOLA.

great resolution. " Yes, I will write to him, I will
address a petition to — the Emperor."
He dwelt upon this word, as if to strengthen himself in the course he had resolved upon.
" Oh, God be praised!" cried the old man, " for it
is from Him comes the good thought when human
pride yields. Yes, write; address to him a petition
for pardon. Fossombroni, Cotenna, and Delarue, my
friends, will support you strongly, as they would me,
with the minister Marescalchi, the Cardinal Caprara,
and even Melzi who has just been appointed keeper
of the seals of the new kingdom. My dear companion, perhaps we shall be released from this prison
together, the same day: you, to recommence an active
and full life; I, to accompany my daughter wherever
she wishes to go."
" Pardon, Monsieur, pardon if I do not seem entirely satisfied with the mediators that you so kindly
and disinterestedly offer me. My esteem and gratitude are yours; but it is to the Emperor himself
that my petition must be sent, this evening, if possi
ble, — to-morrow morning, at latest. Can you be
sure of a faithful messenger ? "
" As faithful as myself," said the old man, after a
moment's reflection.
" Yet one more question," said Charney: " do you
not fear that you may be compromised by the signal
service that you are going to render me ? "
" The pleasure of doing you a service prevents alj
fear, dear sir. If I can in the least contribute la

PICCIOLA.

115

lolace your misfortune, let come what will, 1 know
how to submit to the decrees of heaven."
Charney felt himself stirred to the depths of his
heart by these simple words. He raised his eyes
moistened with tears to the old man.
" How I wish that I might press your hand," said
lie ; and he raised his arm towards the little window.
Girhardi stretched his down through the grating; but
it was in vain, — he could not reach the hand that
was extended to him. Then, inspired by one of
those sentiments of tenderness so active in the heart
of a recluse, he untied quickly his cravat, and retaining one end, threw the other to Charney, who
seized it with eagerness, and a loving vibration of
this insensible linen conveyed from one to the other
their mutual emotion.
" I will save thee," whispered Charney, as he
passed near Picciola.
Eeturning to his chamber, he took the finest and
whitest of his handkerchiefs, carefully pointed his
toothpick, renewed his ink, and set himself to his
task. His petition completed, not without sharpest
pangs of his rebellious pride, he fastened it to a little
cord which hung from the window of the Italian, and
which was immediately drawn up.
An hour after, the person charged with the task
of conveying it to the Emperor, accompanied by a
guide, took the route through the valley, following
the right bank of the Doria Riparia. Both were on
horseback; but they hastened in vain, for unexpected

116

PICCIOLA.

obstacles retarded them. Eecent rains had washed
away the road; in many places the river had over*
flowed, and torrents united the river and the lake.
Already the forges of Giaveno shone redder in the
horizon, warning them that the light of day would
soon fail them. Too happy then to return to the
main road, they gained, not without difficulty, the
magnificent avenue of Eivoli, and late in the night
arrived at Turin.
There they learned that the Emperor-King had
just left for Alexandria.

BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
T H E next morning, at dawn of day, the city of
Alexandria was arrayed in festal garb. An immense
population swarmed in the streets decked with flags
and tapestry, flowers and streamers. The crowd
pressed from the town-hall, where were Napoleon
and Josephine, to the arch of triumph erected at the
extremity of the town, which they must pass in visiting the illustrious plains of Marengo.
On the road from Alexandria to Marengo, the
same multitude of people, the same cries, the same
blare of trumpets.
Never pilgrimage to Notre-Dame de Lorette, never
the ceremonies of the jubilee at Rome, had drawn
crowds such as this, which flowed towards the scarcely
cold field of battle.
Here was to be performed the most important of
the fetes of the day. The Emperor Napoleon was
to be present to witness a simulated combat, in commemoration of the victory gained in this same place
five years before by the First Consul Bonaparte.
Tables and mountebanks' booths line the route.

118

PICCIOLA.

People eat, drink, and witness comedies in the open
air. They even preach there; for more than one
improvised pulpit is seen between the theatre and
the ale-house. Monks, mingling with the crowd or
holding themselves apart at the sides of the road,
not content with giving their benediction to those
who pass, exhort them to quietness and sobriety, and
Bell them little ivory crosses, and rosaries that have
been blessed.
In the long and only street of the village of Marengo, all the houses, transformed into inns, present
a tumultuous image of stir and confusion.
At all the windows, to attract and tempt the passers-by, are hung smoked hams, Italian sausages,
garlands of partridges and quails, chaplets of croquets and confectionery. They press in and out,
they crowd and jostle each other, — Italian, French,
citizens and soldiers; the heaps of maccaroni, the
pyramids of cakes and pastry, disappear in the hands
of purchasers.
In dark and narrow stairways, a double line, ascending and descending, push and jostle. Some, the
better to shield their provisions from the rapacity of
their neighbors, hold them with upraised arms high
above their heads, and in the darkness a longer or
more skilful arm relieves them of the dainty burden, — whether a buttered loaf, figs, oranges, a ham,
a larded quail, or even a pie in its crust, or a savory
Btew in its tureen, — the dish and its contents, all
is taken. There are cries and jokes, and prolonged

PICCIOLA.

119

•atighter, from the upper to the lower stair. The
thief of the ascending line, satisfied with his plunder,
wheels about to descend. His victim in the descend*
ing stream, constrained to make a new purchase,
turns to ascend; and the whole line, broken by the
sudden and irregular flux and reflux, turning of
necessity upon itself, in the midst of shouts of laughter, oaths, blows dealt at hazard, is thrust partly into
the street, and partly into the rooms where the drinkers are singing already at the top of their voices.
Moving about among the tables loaded with dishes,
and the benches crowded with guests, one sees hostess and maids, — the one with gay-colored apron,
powdered hair, and the coquettish poniard, at that
time the fashionable ornament, — the others in short
petticoats, long braided tresses, naked feet and neck,
brow and ears laden with gilded ornaments.
To these animated pictures of the road and the
village, of the chamber and the street, — to this
hum, these cries, these laughs, this din of words,
rattling of glasses and plates, other pictures, other
noises will soon succeed.
In an hour the village will tremble with the thunder of cannon — cannon almost harmless, it is true,
breaking only windows. The street will resound
with the cries of soldiers worked up to a warlike
furor according to orders; and every house will be
enveloped by the smoke of musketry produced by
harmless powder.
Then beware of pillage, if the provisions ha\«

120

PICCIOLA.

not been placed in safety; beware too of the bare*
footed maid ! for the mimic war apes sometimes the
real in its license. It also imitates it in the brilliancy of its display ; and no spectacle could be
more majestic and imposing than that now preparing in the fields of Marengo.
Already a magnificent throne, surrounded with
tricolored standards, is raised on one of the few
hillocks which are on the plain. Already troops of
all arms of the service, of all varieties of uniform,
are deploying to take their places. The trumpet
musters the cavalry; the roll of the drum seems to
spread itself over the whole surface of the ground,
which trembles under the artillery and ammunition
wagons. The aides-de-camp, in their brilliant uniforms, pass and repass, galloping in all directions.
The banners float in the wind, which at the same
time causes the undulation of that moving sea of
feathers, aigrettes, and tricolored plumes; the sun,
that unfailing guest at the fetes of Napoleon, that
radiant illuminator of the pomps of the empire,
shone unclouded, and turned to fire the gold of the
embroideries, the bronze of the cannon, the helmets,
the casques, and the sixty thousand bayonets with
which the field bristled.
Soon the troops arriving with hurried march on
the field of their operations, the crowd of curious
Spectators, flowing back, described an immense circle
$f retreat, as the ripples of the ocean are over
nrhelmed by an enormous wave, while a few horse-

PICCIOLA.

121

men charging against the lingering groups rapidly
clear the field.
The village is deserted — the gay tents struck —
the booths taken down — the songs and cries have
ceased. On all sides are to be seen men interrupted
in their sports or their repast, and women terrified
by the flash of the sabres or the neighing of the
chargers, running and dragging their children after
Hhem.

As the eye glances along the lines of that army,
one can recognize without difficulty, by the countenances of the soldiers, those to whom the General-inchief, Marshal Lannes, has assigned beforehand the
part of vanquished or victors. The General himself
is seen, followed by a numerous staff, reconnoitring
the field on which he five years before so valiantly
distinguished himself, distributing to each one his role.
In repeating the principal movements of the terrible day of the 14th of June, 1800, they will take
care to omit the mistakes which were committed,
for this is a strategic flattery, a madrigal with cannon-shots, that they are to offer the new Emperor
and King.
Now the troops form in line, deploy, fall back,
according to the word of command, when military
(symphonies are heard on the route from Alexandria;
A ague murmurs swell and increase from the assembled multitude, which, protected by the streams of
&e Tanaro, Bormida, the Orba, or the ravines of
Tortona, form the waving and living girdle cf thisr
trena.

122

PICCIOLA.

All at once the drums beat a salute, cries and
rivats rise from all sides in the midst of clouds of
dust, sabres flash in the sunlight, muskets are shouldered and clank as by a unanimous movement, and
a brilliant chariot, drawn by eight horses caparisoned and blazoned with the arms of France and
Italy, convey to the foot of their throne Josephine
and Napoleon.
After having received the homage of all the Italian
deputations, the envoys of Lucca, Genoa, Florence,
Rome, and even Prussia, Napoleon, impatient of
inactivity, springs upon his horse, and soon the entire plain is illumined with fire and covered with
smoke.
Such were the sports of the young conqueror.
War for his pastime, war for the accomplishment of
his high destiny. It was a necessity to that fiery
Bpirit, born for dominion, to whom the conquest of
the world alone would have brought leisure.
An officer designated by Napoleon explained to
Josephine, as she sat solitary upon her throne, half
frightened by the spectacle, the meaning of the various evolutions, and the object of all the manoeuvres. He showed her the Austrian General Melas
driving the French from the village of Marengo,
routing them at Pietra-Buona, at Castel-Ceriolo
and Bonaparte suddenly arresting him in the midst
of his triumph with only nine hundred men of the
Consular Guard. Now he fixes her attention upon
*ne of the most decisive moments of the battle,

PICCIOLA.

123

The republicans are giving way, but Desaix appears on the road from Tortona. The terrible Hungarian column, under the orders of Zach, begins to
move, and marches to meet him.
But while the officer is speaking, Josephine's
attention is diverted by a slight disturbance near
her. Having asked the cause, she learns that a
young girl, after having imprudently cleared the line
of military operations, at the risk of being a thousand times crushed by a charge of cavalry or the
wheels of artillery wagons, occasions this disturbance by her obstinate determination, notwithstanding the resistance of the guard and the remonstrances of the ladies of her suite, to penetrate even
to her Majesty.

CHAPTER II.
ON learning that the Emperor had quitted Turk
for Alexandria, the daughter of Girhardi, — for it is
she, she herself who, followed by a guide, has beer
the bearer of the petition of Charney, — Theresa
was at first overcome and almost discouraged. Bui
she remembered that she held in her hands the joy.
the only hope of a poor captive. The Count was
entirely ignorant as to the person who had undertaken the dangerous errand. Without regard to
time or fatigue, at the risk of arriving too late, she
persevered, and signified to the guide that the end
of their journey must be, not Turin, but Alexan :
dria.
" H o ! h o ! " said the guide, scratching his ear
" that is twice as far as we have come already."
" Well, we must start immediately."
" I am going to start immediately, Signora," replied he quietly, " but it will be to turn my back te
Turin as well as to Alexandria. On the road to Eivoli I have a cousin whose daughter is about to be
married; he will have to lodge me and my horses
gratis; that is so much gained, to say nothing of the
vedding-feast."

PICCIOLA.

125

In answer to her exclamations, he said, " I do not
refuse to wait till morning, and then conduct you
back to Fenestrella, as was agreed. Will that suit
you ? No ? A pleasant journey to you, Signora."
All her efforts to make him change his resolution
were useless; his Piedmontese obstinacy was im
movable.
But having undertaken this work of devotion,
Theresa would not look back. Decided to continue
her route alone, she begged the hostess of the inn
where she had alighted, to procure her, without a
moment's delay, the means of conveying her most
rapidly to Alexandria. The hostess sent her servants to the city; they went from the gate of Suza
to that of Po, from the new gate to that of the
palace; but carriages, public and private, beasts
of burden, and saddle-horses, had gone, or were
engaged a long time in advance, on account of the
festivities at Alexandria.
Theresa was in despair at this fatal contre-temps.
Absorbed in reverie, with drooping head, she stood
upon the step of the inn, not fearing to be recognized in her native town, thanks to the darkness,
swhen the sound of wheels, made gay by bells attached to the mules, was heard. At the door where
she was standing drew up two strong mules, with
one of those itinerant dealer's wagons, the deep and
capacious boxes of which, closed and padlocked,
were closely packed with goods for sale, leaving
only room for a narrow seat of leather, partly shel
.fired by an awning of oil-cloth.

126

PICCIOLA.

The man and his wife, owners of the vehicle and
Its merchandise, alighted, giving audible grunts of
satisfaction, stamping their feet, stretching their arms*
to restore the circulation and awake themselves from
their drowsiness. They greeted the hostess as an
old acquaintance,, and established themselves at once
in the two corners of the chimney, warming their
hands and feet at the fire of vine sticks which
crackled on the hearth; then, having ordered the
mules to be put in the stable, congratulating each
other on having arrived at the end of their day's
journey, they ordered supper, and talked of getting
to bed as soon as possible.
The hostess, too, was preparing for rest. The
yawning servants were closing the doors and windows, and Theresa still stood bowed down with disappointment, thinking of the time which was gliding
away, the hope which was fading, the flower which
was dying.
" A night, a whole night," said she to herself;
" and the unhappy Count will be counting the minutes while I sleep; and to-morrow perhaps it will be
impossible for me to find a conveyance."
She fixed a long and earnest look upon the two
travellers eating their supper, as if her last resource
was in them. She was ignorant what route they
were to take, — whether they would or could take
tharge of h e r ; and the poor girl, little accustomed
bo find herself alone, thus thrown upon herself among
grangers, dared not ask. Impelled by her anxiety

PICCIOLA.

127

withheld by her timidity, one foot forward, Ler lips
parted, she remained in her place mute and undecided, when suddenly a servant presented her with
a lighted candle and a key, pointing with her finger
to the door of the chamber she was to occupy.
Recalled to a sense of her position and forced to
decide, Theresa gently put aside the servant, and
stepping toward the table where the couple were
seated, said in a trembling voice, " Pardon my question ; what route do you take from Turin ? "
" The road to Alexandria, my pretty girl."
" To Alexandria! It is my good angel that has
brought you here."
" Your good angel has brought us over very bad
roads then, Signora," said the woman; " we are tired
to death."
" But how can we serve you?" said the merchant.
" A pressing affair calls me to Alexandria; will
you take me there ? "
" Impossible," said the woman.
" Oh, I will pay you well — two pieces of St. John
Baptist! ten livres of France."
" I t is difficult," replied the husband. " I n the
first place, the seat is narrow — it is scarcely possible for three to sit upon it. It is true that you will
not take much room. But there is another difficulty. We are going to the market of Revigano,
Hear Asti, and not to Alexandria, and that is only
half-way."
" Well," said the young girl, " take me to the gates
*f Asti; but start to-night, immediately/'

128

PICCIOLA.

" Impossible! impossible !" exclaimed the couple
* We do not sell either our sleep or our fatigue/'
" I will double the sum," interposed Theresa, in a
low voice.
The husband looked at his wife with a questioning
gesture.
" No, no," said she, " it will make us ill. Besides,
Losca and Zoppa need rest. Do you want to kill
them?"
" Four pieces! " murmured the husband, " four
pieces!"
" Losca and Zoppa are worth more than that."
" Double price for half the way! "
" What of that ? one sequin of Venice is worth a
double parpaiole of Genoa."
Nevertheless the idea of the four pieces, the bait
of a gain so easily made, soon produced its effect upon
the wife as upon the husband; and after some resistance on one side, and reiterated supplications and
prayers on the other, the mules were again put before the wagon.
Theresa, wrapped in her mantle for protection
from the chilly night-air, arranged herself as well as
she could on the seat between the man and woman.
Just as the clocks were striking eleven, they drove
from the door of the inn.
In her impatience to* accomplish the object of her
journey, and return good news to Fenestrella, Theresa wished to feel herself borne by coursers rapid ai
the wind; but the heavy wagon lumbered slowlj

PICCIOLA.

129

Along the road; the mules paced steadily on, step by
step, raising slowly one foot after the other, and the
regular tinkling of their bells seemed to add to the
nonchalant air of their movements. For some time
she said nothing, hoping that they would become excited when warmed with motion, or that the whip of
the driver would quicken their pace; but seeing that,
instead of any such prompting, he was satisfied with
an occasional clicking of the tongue, she took courage to say to him that it was of the greatest importance that she should arrive as soon as possible at
Asti, in order that she might reach Alexandria in the
morning.
" My good child," replied her new guide, " it does
not please me any more than you to spend the night
in counting the stars, but a merchant must look after
his merchandise. My load is crockery, that I am
taking to sell at Revigano, and if my mules were to
trot, they would make potsherds of all my stock."
" What, sir, you are a crockery merchant ? " cried
Theresa, in a tone of consternation.
" A china merchant," said the wife.
" Alas, alas!" sighed she, " but at least you can go
a little faster."
" Do you wish to ruin me ? "
" I am in such haste to arrive."
" And what of us, my good girl ? Is that a reason
why we should break everything ? "
By way of concession, however, for a few minutea
the crockery merchant increased the frequency of
9

130

PICCIOLA.

his clickings of the tongue ; but the mules were ton
well accustomed to their pace to change it so easily.
Theresa then began to reproach herself bitterly
for not having inquired before, how long it would take
to reach Asti; she reproached herself above all for
not having gone herself, in Turin, to seek, with the
knowledge that she had of the city, a more prompt
means of conveyance; now there was nothing to do
but to be resigned.
The wagon jogged along at the same pace. Losca
and Zoppa went neither faster nor slower; only
choosing the unpaved side of the road, the travellers
were relieved from the racket of the wheels upon the
stones. The merchant and his wife, who until now
had been exchanging conjectures as to their probable
success at the fair of Eevigano, relapsed into silence.
Theresa, in the darkness and stillness, notwithstanding the numbness of her feet from the cold, lulled
by the monotonous tinkling of the bells, was overcome with drowsiness. Her head at first nodding
from one side to the other, seeking a pillow sometimes on the shoulder of the man, and then on that
of his wife, sunk at last heavily upon her breast.
" Lean upon me, my poor girl," said the merchant,
" and good-night to you."
She followed his counsel, arranged herself as sh<8
best could, and slept so soundly that the light of dawning day first oaused her to open her eyes. Astonished to find herself in the open air and on the high
road, she roused herself, and looking about, perceived

PICCIOLA.

131

frith surprise and terror that the wagon no longer
moved, and seemed for a long time to have been motionless in this place.
The merchant, his wife, the mules themselves, all
slept profoundly, and the tinkling of the bells was
hushed.
Theresa saw not far behind her the tops of several
steeples; and through the morning mists, causing on
the horizon fantastic groupings, she saw what she
fancied were the roofs and towers of the Superga,
the ch&teau of Mille-Fleurs, of La Yigne and La
Heine, the church of the Capuchins, and all the magnificent buildings on the heights of Turin.
" Merciful Heaven ! " cried she, " where are we ?
Day is breaking, and we are scarcely out of the
suburbs."
The merchant, awaked by her cries, after rubbing
his eyes, hastened to reassure her.
" We are approaching Asti," said he, " and the
steeples which you see behind you are those of Eevigano. There is nothing to scold Losca and Zoppa
for: they only fell asleep, and they had need enough
of it. I hope they have not taken advantage of my
ileep to trot."
Theresa smiled. He gave an unexpected crack
of his whip, which aroused at once his wife and his
Bailies.
At the gate of Asti the worthy man took leave of
the young girl, after assisting her to alight, and signing the sign of the cross on the twenty francs wlue!*

132

PICCIOLA.

he received from her, turned straight about, taking
the road for Eevigano.
Half the route was then accomplished.
But
Theresa no }onger hoped to arrive for the early
evee of the Emperor.
" However," thought she, " an Emperor will rise
late."
O how gladly she would have plunged again
below the horizon the sun, which announced its
coming by the increasing light. It seemed to her
that everything about her ought to feel the same
haste which agitated her, — that she would see the
whole population of Asti astir, in preparation for a
journey to Alexandria, and in that multitude of ve*
hides of all sorts she would surely obtain a place,
were it even in a cart.
What then was her astonishment, upon her entrance into the town, to find the streets deserted and
silent. The sun, just risen, illuminated only the roofs
of the highest houses and the domes of the churches.
She remembered that one of her maternal relatives had lived in Asti for many years. He might
be of great use to her; and seeing, on the ground
floor of a small house, a bright light shining through
the latticed window, she ventured to knock and
inquire where this relative lived.
The casement opened, a harsh, shrill voice an«
swered that the individual in question had lived foi
the last three months at his country-house, and thf
casement was closed again.

PICCIOLA.

133

A sense of the loneliness of her situation in the
ieserted streets overwhelmed her, and seeing an
rinage of the Virgin in a niche in the wall, before
which a lamp was burning, she threw herself upon
her knees before it, and rose from her prayer for
help and protection with renewed courage. Scarcely
had she risen, when the sound of approaching footsteps was heard, and in a moment a man appeared.
"Direct me, sir, I pray you," said she to him,
" where to find a carriage that will take me to Alexandria."
"You are too late, my good girl," replied the
stranger; "all the carriages and carts have been
engaged this three days ; " and he passed on.
A second came towards her. At the same question from Theresa, he stopped, and regarding her
wteh a hard and angry glance, muttered, " You, too,
love the French, then. Cursed race!" and hastened
on more rapidly than the other.
The poor girl stood for some time thoroughly intin idated, but regained courage to ask her question
foi the third time, on seeing a young workman come
out from a house, singing as he went to his work.
u
Ah, ah, Signora," said he, with a good-natured
air "you want to see a battle! But there is no
place there for pretty girls. Believe me, you had
better stay with us. There is a fete to-day, and tha
best dancers will quarrel which shall have you for
partner in the Contadina, You are worth a quarrel.
A little war in your honor, eh ? will not that tempt
TOU?"

134

PICCTOLA.

And he advanced towards her with a familiar bow
but at one indignant glance from her he resumed
his song and pursued his way. A fourth, a fifth,
passed her in their turn. Theresa no longer interrogated them, but watched carefully the gates as they
opened, and the carriages standing in the courtyards. At last, not without difficulty, and by special
favor, she was allowed to take the place, as far as
Annone, of a passenger whose seat was engaged from
there to Alexandria. At Annone, and again at
Feliziano, she encountered a variety of difficulties;
but she triumphed over all.
Knowing before she arrived at Alexandria that
the Emperor had left there, she did not delay a moment, but on foot joined the crowd pressing towards
Marengo.
Jostled on every side by the rabble, taking advantage of every break in the crowd, skirting the edges
of the road, she lost no opportunity of gaining ground
on those in advance of her. Inattentive to the noise
of the trumpets, to the shows of the jugglers, in the
midst of this crowd of pleasure-seekers, who rushed
from side to side, singing, shouting, leaping with joy
in clouds of dust, Theresa made her way, the only
stranger to the festivities of the day, with anxious
face, and eye fixed and preoccupied, occasionally
raising her hand to wipe the drops from her brow,
the gravity of her countenance presenting a strange
contrast to the joyous faces around her.
Her whole will and energy are concentrated lipou

PICCIOLA.

135

making her way. Scarcely during all this time does
the thought of the end which she wishes to attain
present itself to her mind.
But a sudden halt imposed upon the crowd by the
stopping of the front ranks, forced her to slacken
her pace, and thought returned. She thought of
her father who would soon begin to be tormented
with anxiety in her prolonged absence, for the guide
who had abandoned her at Turin could not gain
admission to him to explain the cause; of Charney,
cursing the choice of a messenger perhaps, and
accusing her of carelessness and forgetfulness; then,
with a sudden fear, she put her hand in her bosom,
as if by some chance she might have lost the petition.
Then her father presented himself anew to her
eyes, — the old man reproaching himself for having
yielded to her entreaties, believing his daughter lost
through his fault. At the thought of this adored
father tears filled her eyes, but her painful reverie
was suddenly interrupted by shouts of merriment.
A large circle had formed just behind her, around
which the crowd seemed to eddy. Theresa turned,
&nd instantly her hands were seized by one on each
kide, and, notwithstanding her resistance, her fatigue,
and above all her indisposition to any gayety of the
gort, she found herself constrained to appear as an
active participator in a grand farandole, which went
whirling along the road, recruiting as it went all the
pretty girls and young men, who willingly took part

136

PICCIOLA.

This was not the least painful annoyance of the
journey; but her courage did not yet abandon her,
for she believed she was near the end.
She at length succeeded in disengaging herself
from this singular situation, and making a final effort
to open a way through the mass in front of her, she
arrived at last in sight of the plain; her astonished
eye, after wandering a moment over that splendid
army covering the field of Marengo, was suddenly
illuminated as it rested with delight upon the little
hill upon which was erected the imperial throne.
All her strength, all her courage, all her ardor returned ; but how to arrive there through those thousands of men and horses — could she think of it ?
But that which at first had seemed an obstacle
proved rather an aid.
The foremost ranks of the crowd pouring in torrents from Alexandria, pressed by those behind,
made an irruption on to the plain, that seemed as if
they would take possession of the field of battle.
A small body of cavalry instantly galloped toward?
the spot, and the glistening of their naked sabres
and the rush of the horses, quickly forced them back
within their limits. All evacuated the ground as
quickly as they had gained it — all with the excep
don of one person.
In a little hollow on the plain flowed a spring, surrounded by a small grove of trees and a hedge of
hawthorn. Theresa, pale and trembling, directing
her steps by instinct towards the throne, had beeu

PICCIOLA.

137

thrust forward by the crowd to the edge of the grove
Terrified by this violent impulsion, fearful of being
crushed against the trees, closing her eyes like the
child who believes the danger past when he n<i
longer sees it, she threw her arras around the trunk
of a poplar, and rested so for some time motionless,
her ears filled with the hum of the retreating crowd
and the rustling of the foliage.
The retreating movement was so rapid at the approach of the soldiers, that when Theresa raised her
head and looked about, she found herself alone, all
alone, separated from the army by the clump of trees
and the hawthorn hedge, and from the multitude by
a thick cloud of dust raised by the last undulation
of the fleeing wave.
Not hesitating to penetrate the hedge, she found
herself in the grove of trees. In a few moments,
her emotion becoming somewhat calmed, she could
take cognizance of her surroundings.
Shaded by about twenty poplar and aspen trees,
the spring, welling with a little bubbling noise out
vtf the ground carpeted with moss and ivy, gave
birth to a little rivulet, whose course over the plain
«jould be traced by the tufts of blue forget-me-nots
and clusters of white ranunculus which embroidered
its banks. The coolness and moisture of the air
aided to dispel the agitation and trouble of the terrified girl. It seemed to her that she had found an
*asis of coolness and quiet, and that the belt of hawihorn was her shield against the dust, the heat, and
^ie confusion.

138

PICCIOLA.

For an instant there seems to be silence on the
plain ; she hears neither the word of command of the
officers, the huzzas of the crowd, nor the neighing
of the horses. She is conscious of a singular movement overhead — a continuous twittering and fluttering in the trees. She looks up and sees the branches
of the poplars and aspens covered with an innumerable quantity of sparrows, finches, linnets, and even
the larger pigeons and blackbirds, driven by the
noise and tumult, like the young girl, to seek shelter
in this solitude of verdure. One would think that
fear had paralyzed them both in wing and voice;
not a cry, not a song was heard from one of the little creatures so crowded upon the branches which
bent under their weight, that one might say the
poplars and aspens bore feathers rather than leaves.
Even when regiments of cavalry, with the noise of
clarions, advanced and stationed themselves in the
same place from which the crowd had just been
driven, the birds did not abandon their asylum.
Sharpening their bills and fluttering their wings,
they anxiously waited the end of all this confusion;
and it was this movement that had attracted the
attention of Theresa.
However, the soldiers, which cut off all communication with the road, soon occupied all her thoughts*
" I t is only a harmless combat," said she to her«
lelf; " and if I have been imprudent, God knows
the object of my efforts ; he will protect me," Directing then her attention through the opposite side

PICCIOLA.

139

*f this island of verdure, she saw at the distance of
nbout three hundred paces the throne of Napoleon
and Josephine. The intervening space was sometimes
occupied by the manoeuvres of troops, and sometimes
left clear so that a passage across was possible.
Theresa takes courage — the moment has come
— she presses aside the hedge to pass through, when
a sense of the disorder of her toilet fills her with
shame and confusion. Her tresses, unbraided and
dishevelled, are floating over her shoulders; her
hands and face are soiled with dust. To present
herself thus before the sovereigns of France and
Italy would ha to insure her repulse, and compromise perhaps the success of her mission.
She reenters the thicket, unties her straw hat,
shakes out her dark hair, smooths and rebraids it,
and adjusts her dress; then kneeling at the spring,
she bathes her hands and face, and, bowing herself
still lower, offers to Heaven a fervent prayer for her
father and for Charney.
A h ! was not this a charming little picture, set as
by chance in the centre of a grand battle-piece of
Salvator Rosa, this chaste toilet of a young maiden,
made in the midst of an army ?
While Theresa was watching anew for a favorable
moment to attempt to cross the field, suddenly from
tdl sides were heard the detonations of artillery
The earth seemed to tremble under her feet, and
the birds perched upon the trees, with cries of terror,
made their disordered and bewildered flight for the
woods of Valpedo and shady groves of Voghera.

140

PICCIOLA.

The battle had commenced!
Theresa, stunned by the noise of cannon, terrified
by all this tumult, stood in a sort of stupor, with he*
ayes fixed upon the throne, which, by turns, was visible for a moment, and then was hidden by a curtain
of lances and bayonets.
After a half-hour, during which every though!:
was obliterated by a sense of amazement and terror,
the energy of her soul resumed its force. She examined calmly the obstacles she must vanquish to reach
the throne, and decided that they were not insurmountable.
Two columns of infantry formed in two lines, of
which the double base rested upon the thicket, had
just opened a sharp fire of musketry upon each
other. She hoped to be able, under cover of this
cloud of smoke, to make her way unnoticed. While
she hesitated, a troop of hussars, burning with thirst,
invaded her asylum. Then she hesitated no longer;
modesty gave new life to her courage. She rushed
forth, running between the two columns of infantry;
and when the smoke began to clear away, the soldiers
raised a cry of surprise on perceiving in the midst of
them the white robe and straw hat of a woman, — a
beautiful young girl, who, notwithstanding their cries,
pursued her way. At this moment a squadron of
cavalry galloped up to support one of the lines. The*
resa just escaped being thrown down and crushed,
by the captain's seizing her in his arms; and without
inquiring by what chance a young girl was in th«

PICCIOLA.

141

field of battle, he gave her in charge of two soldiers,
to convey her to the spot where were grouped Josephine's attandents.
One of the horsemen raised her to the saddle behind him, and it was thus that she approached the
place where the ladies of the suite of the Empress,
accompanied by several aides-de-camp and the der>
uties of the cities of Italy, were stationed.
Arrived there, at last so near the goal, it was impossible that her enterprise should fail. She had
surmounted too many difficulties to be vanquished
by the last. When, on her demand to speak to the
Emperor, she was told that he was in the field at
the head of his troops, " Then," cried she, with firmness, " I wish to see the Empress;" but one was not
more easy than the other. To free themselves from
her importunity, they endeavored to intimidate her,
but in vain. They told her that she must wait till
the end of the evolutions; she refused to do so, and
insisted upon forcing her way to the throne. They
held her; she struggled, and raised her voice with
Buch vehemence that it attracted the attention of
Josephine.

CHAPTER III.
W H I L E Josephine was giving her orders, an open
frig in the crowd showed her Theresa, imploring, restrained by strong arms, yet resisting. At a gracious
sign from the Empress, which every one about her
knew how to interpret, they released the captive,
who, finding herself free, sprang forward, threw herself on her knees, panting, at the foot of the throne,
and drawing quickly from her bosom a handkerchief,
which she waved in the air, cried, "Madame, Madame, a poor prisoner!" —
Josephine could not understand the meaning of
this handkerchief offered to her.
" Do you wish to present a petition to me ? " said
she.
" This is it, Madame, this is it, the petition of %
poor prisoner." And the tears sprang from the eyes
of the supplicant, while a smile of hope illuminated
her countenance. The Empress replied to her bj
another smile, gave her her hand, forced her to rise,
and bending towards her with a manner full of kind*
ness, said, " Come, come, my child, be reassured
d e interests you very much, then> this poor prist*
>ner ? "

PICCIOLA.

143

Theresa blushed and cast down her eyes.
" I have never spoken to him," replied she, " but
he is so unhappy! Read, Madame!"
Josephine unfolded the handkerchief, moved to
pity in thinking how much misery and privation this
linen, so painfully written upon with an artificial ink,
bore witness t o ; then, stopping at the first line, —
" But it is addressed to the Emperor."
" W h a t matter! Are you not his wife? Eead,
read, Madame, in mercy read ! it is so urgent!"
The combat was at its height. The Hungarian
column, although under fire from the artillery of
Marmont, renewed its forward movement. Zach
and Desaix were face to face, and the result of
their encounter was to decide the salvation or the
loss of the army.
The cannon thundered on every side; the field of
battle was aflame; the shouts of the soldiers, mingled with the clang and roar of battle, caused an
agitation of the air as if a tempest was raging.
The Empress read that which follows : —
"Sire:
" Two stones less in the court of my prison will
not shake the foundations of your empire, and such
is the only favor that I ask of your Majesty. I t is
not for myself that I ask your protection ; but in this
iesert of stones, where I am expiating my offences
against you, one single being has brought some solace to my pain, one single ^eing has thrown some

144

PICCIOLA.

charm upon my life. It is a plant, Sire, which has
spontaneously sprung up between the pavements of
the court where I am permitted sometimes to breathe
the air and see the sky. Accuse me not of delirium
or folly. This flower has been for me an object of
study so sweet and so consoling! My eyes fixed
upon this plant have been opened to the truth; to it
I owe reason, repose, life perhaps. I love it as you
love glory.
" At this moment my poor plant is dying for want
of space in the ground, — it is dying, and I cannot
succor it; the commandant of Fenestrella would send
my complaint to the governor of Turin, and when
they have decided, my plant will be dead. Therefore, Sire, I address you, you who by one word can
do all, can save my plant. Permit the lifting of these
two stones, which weigh upon me as upon it. Save
it from destruction — save me from despair! Give
the order; it is the life of my plant that I ask of you.
I implore, I entreat you upon my bended knees, and
T swear to you that on my heart shall be inscribed
the record of your goodness.
" W h y should it die? It has, I acknowledge,
lightened the punishment that your powerful hand
has inflicted upon m e ; but it has also humbled my
pride, and brings me now, a suppliant, to your feet
From the height of your double throne look down
upon us. Can you comprehend what ties may bind
a man to a plant in this isolation which leaves for a
man only a vegetative existence ? No, you canno

PICCIOLA.

145

know, and may God guard you from ever knowing
what effect imprisonment may produce upon the
firmest and proudest spirit. I do not complain of
my captivity; I support it with resignation; prolong
it, let it continue through my life; but mercy for
my plant!
" Remember, Sire, that this mercy that I implore of
your Majesty is in vain if it is not granted immediately — even to-day. You may hold the sword suspended for a time over the head of the condemned
one, and raise it at last to grant him pardon. But nature follows other laws than the justice of man; two
days more, and even the Emperor Napoleon can do
nothing for the flower of the captive of Fenestrella.
" CHARNEY."

At that moment a storm of artillery rent the air;
a dense smoke, cut into circles and lozenges of fire
by the flashes of the discharge, covered the field of
battle with a vast net-work of light and shade; then
the firing ceased, and it seemed as if a hand, stretched
from on high, removed suddenly this curtain of cloud
which hid the combatants. Then a magnificent
spectacle broke upon the sight. That brilliant charge
in which Desaix had lost his life, was made. Zach
and his Hungarians, encountered in front by Boudet,
harassed on the left flank by the cavalry of Keller
man, were thrown into disorder, when the mtrepia
Consul, reestablishing at once his new line of battle
Srom Castel-Ceriolo to Saint-Julien, resumed the
10

146

PICCIOLA.

offensive, overthrew the Imperialists at every point
and forced Melas to sound a retreat.
This sudden change of position, these grand move*
ments of the army, this flux and reflux of men, obeying the voice of one leader, he alone immovable in
the midst of that apparent disorder, — there was
something in all this which could not but impress the
coldest imagination. From the groups of spectators
around the throne burst acclamations and vivats,
which at last drew the Empress from the profound
meditation in which she was plunged. For of these
latter and most brilliant manoeuvres and imposing
tableaux passing before her, the future queen of
Italy had seen nothing, as she sat, lost in thought,
with her eyes fixed upon this singular petition, which
she looked at but no longer read.
Her first glance was to reassure the young girl
standing before her, who also had been lost in reverie.
Joyous, enchanted by this smile so full of sweet
promises, Theresa, certain of success, kissed again
and again with warmest gratitude that hand at once
so frail and so strong, on which glittered the nuptial
ring of Napoleon. Then, leaving the throne, she
joined the group of women, and, as soon as the plain
was free, she sought a church or chapel, where in
silence she might shed her tears, and offer up he?
thanksgivings.

CHAPTER

IV.

W A S it not natural that the Empress-Queen should
be seized with a sentiment of the liveliest pity in
reading this petition? Ought not every word to
have roused all her sympathy ? For she was a worshipper of flowers. It was her science, her passion;
and often had she forgotten, in her beautiful conservatories of Malmaison, the eclat and the ennui of
power, in watching a bud as it opened, or studying
the structure of a corolla. There often she was
more happy in contemplating the purple of the cactus than the purple of her imperial mantle; and the
perfume of her magnolias was to her more intoxicating than the poisonous flatteries of her courtiers.
There she loved to reign, uniting under one sceptre
a thousand floral subjects from all quarters of the
globe. She knew them, — she classified them, — she
ranged them in regiments according to order and
race; and when a new subject presented itself to
her for the first time, she knew, b \ analyzing, how to
question it of its age and habits, and to learn from
itself its name and family ; then it was placed in the
group of its brothers, to take its natural r a n k ; for
there each tribe had its flag, each family its guidon.

148

PICCiOLA.

Following the example of Napoleon, she respected
the laws and customs of a vanquished people. Plants
of all countries found again in the hot-houses of
Malmaison their natural soil and their native climate.
It was a world in miniature. One saw there in a cir«»
cumscribed space meadows and rocks, the soil of
virgin forests, and the sand of the desert; banks of
clay and marl, lakes, cascades, and inundated strands;
one might pass from the heat of the tropics to the
refreshing climate of the temperate zone. There all
the different races grew and developed side by side,
only separated by walls of verdure or frontiers of
glass.
When Josephine here held her review, the sight
of certain flowers gave birth to sweetest reveries.
The hydrangea had but recently borrowed the name
of Hortensia from her daughter. Thoughts of glory
also were suggested to h e r ; for, after the triumphs
of Bonaparte, she too claimed her share of the spoils
of war, and souvenirs of Italy and Egypt grew and
blossomed under her eyes. The soldenella of the
Alps, the violet of Parma, the adonis of Castiglione,
the carnation of Lodi, the willow of the Orient, the
cross of Malta, the lily of the Nile, the hibiscus of
Syria, the rose of Damietta, — such were her con*
quests. And these at least France still retains.
In the midst of all her treasures, she had he*
favorite flower, her flower of adoption, her beautiful
jasmine of Martinique, the seed of which she had
gathered, sown, and cultivated; it recalls to her be?

PICCIOLA.

14S

fcative land, her childhood, her ornaments and crowns
of her girlhood, the paternal roof, and her early
wedded love.
A h ! how well she comprehends the fears of the
unhappy man for his plant! How much he must
love it — his only one! And how could she but be
touched by the fate of the poor prisoner? The widow
of Beauharnais had not always dwelt in a consular
•r imperial palace. She has not forgotten her own
iays of captivity. Then this Charney, Josephine
remembers him in society; so calm, so proud, so listless in the midst of the pleasures of the world; a
Bcorner of the sweetest human affections. What has
so changed him ? Who has had power to unbend
this haughty spirit ? Thou who didst refuse to bend
the knee even before thy God art now a suppliant
crying for mercy for thy plant! A h ! it shall be preserved to thee.
In this state of mind, the last manoeuvres of the
troops, all this vain simulation of battle, caused her
only impatience and annoyance; for every moment
lost might peril the existence of the flower of the
captive.
The moment that Napoleon, surrounded by his
generals, came to rejoin her, stirred with the excitement of the warrior, and expecting her felicitations,
$he received him — her eye flashing, and her voice
clear and ringing, as if it was a question of a new vi<v
lory, and it was her turn to put forth all the activity
df a commander — with the exclamation, " Sire, at?

150

PICCIOLA.

order for the governor of Fenestrella! An express
messenger on the instant!" And she held the handkerchief stretched with both hands, that he migh*
read it immediately.
Napoleon, after surveying her from head to foot,
with an astonished and displeased air, turned on his
heel, and passed on. One would have said that he
completed his review in her — simply that she was
the last to pass under inspection.
According to his usual habit he then went to visit
the field of battle, which no blood had reddened, and
where lay upon the ground only the unripe harvest.
The wheat and corn were trampled and cut to pieces.
In some places the earth, deeply ploughed and torn,
bore witness to the evolutions of the artillery; here
and there were scattered the gantlets of the dragoons, plumes and epaulets; then a few limping footsoldiers, and foundered horses, — that was all.
At one time, however, the affair had threatened to
become more grave. The soldiers occupying the
village of Marengo, in the character of Austrians,
hesitated in performing their role of " vanquished,"
and prolonged their resistance beyond the time indicated in the programme. An active irritation was
the result. The two regiments were of different
corps, and were imbued with garrison rivalries. Insult and provocation resulted in the crossing of
bayonets. A terrible collision seemed inevitabla
Nothing but the utmost authority of the general!
prevented the mock fight from becoming a real com*

PICGIOLA.

151

bat. At last they consented to fraternize in exchanging gourds; but the gourds were empty; to fill them,
they entered forcibly the cellars of the village. Excess ran riot; but at the cries of Vive Vempereur ! all
was placed to the account of enthusiasm. After repeated parleys and health-drinkings, the "Austrians "
consented to beat a reeling retreat, and the French
victors made their entrance into Marengo, dancing
the farandola, singing the Marseillaise, mingling with
their shouts their old but now forbidden cry of Vive
la republique ! Then all was placed to the account
of drunkenness.
The troops having again formed in line, Napoleon
distributed the cross of honor among the old soldiers
who five years before had fought in the same place.
In their turn, the principal Cisalpine magistrates
received decorations from him. Then, with Josephine, he laid the first stone of a monument destined
to perpetuate the memory of the battle of Marengo.
After which the Emperor, the Empress, the ambassadors, the magistrates, the people, and the army, re*
turned to Alexandria.
And the fate of Picciola was not yet decided I

CHAPTER

V.

O N the evening of that day, Josephine and Napo*
leon, after the official dinner at which they had been
present, were in one of the apartments which had
been prepared for them in the Hotel de Ville of
Alexandria, — the one dictating letters to his secre
tary, pacing the room and rubbing his hands with an
air of satisfaction, the other before a lofty mirror,
admiring, with naive coquetry, the elegance of her
robes, and the splendor of the jewels with which she
was adorned.
When the secretary was dismissed, Napoleon
seated himself, and leaning both his elbows upon a
table covered with crimson velvet fringed with gold,
rested his head on his hands, and fell into a reverie,
the subject of which was far from painful, judging
from the expression of his face.
But Josephine soon wearied of the silence which
ensued. He had already once that day treated he*
mdely in the matter of the petition; and aware that
she had been maladroit in too much precipitation
she determined again to choose the moment more
wisely. She believed that now the right time ha<f
come; and seating herself on the other side of the

PICCIOLA.

153

table opposite her husband, she too leaned upon her
elbows, and, like him, affected an air of abstraction;
soon their eyes met with a smile.
" W h a t are you thinking o f ? " said Josephine tc
him, with a caressing tone and look.
" I am thinking," said he, " that the diadem is very
Decoming to you, and that it would be a great pity
if I had neglected to place one in your jewelcasket."
The smile of Josephine gradually faded, while
that of Napoleon became more decided, for he loved
to combat the painful apprehensions which always
took possession of her when she contemplated the
height to which they had lately risen. Noble
woman ! it was not for herself that she trembled.
" Are you not better pleased to see me Emperor
than General ? " pursued he.
" Certainly; as Emperor you have the right to
grant mercy, and I have a favor to ask of you."
Now it was on the face of the husband that the
smile faded, to brighten on the face of the wife.
Knitting his brows, he prepared himself to be firm,
fearing that the influence which Josephine exercised
upon his heart might lead him into some foolish
weakness.
" Again, Josephine ! You have promised me not
to attempt in this way again to interrupt the course
of justice. Do you think that the right to exercise
»ercy is granted us only to satisfy the caprices of
tur hearts ? N o ; we ought to use it only to softer

154

PICCIOLA.

the too rigorous punishment of the law, or to repai*
the errors of the tribunal. Always to extend the
hand of forgiveness to one's enemies, is only to augment their number and their insolence."
" Nevertheless, Sire," replied Josephine, with difr
ficulty restraining a burst of laughter, " you will ac«
cord me the favor that I implore of your Majesty."
" I doubt it."
"And I do not doubt it. First and before all, I
demand the removal of two oppressors! Yes, Sire,
let them be displaced; let them be driven out, forced
away, if necessary !"
And speaking thus, she covered her mouth with
her handkerchief, for, seeing the astonished face of
Napoleon, she could no longer restrain her mirth.
" How ? you urge me to punish ! you, Josephine ?
And who are the guilty ones ? "
" Two paving-stones, Sire, which are in the way,
in a court-yard."
And the laughter so long restrained broke forth
in a merry peal.
He rose quickly, and crossing his arms behind
him, regarded her with an air of doubt and surprise.
" How ? what do you mean ? Two paving-stones!
Are you jesting ? " — " No," said she; and rising, she
approached him, and with her graceful Creole nonchalance leaning her two clasped hands on his shoul
der, said, — " On these two stones depend a precious
existence. Listen to me, Sire; I invoke all your
food-will while I speak."

PICCIOLA.

1E5

She then recounted to him the whole story of the
petition, and all that she had learned from the young
girl concerning the prisoner, (whose name, however,
she did not mention,) and of the devotion of the
poor child; and in speaking of the prisoner, of his
flower, and the love which he bore it, the words
flowed from her lips gracious, tender, caressing, full
of charm and of that eloquence in which her heart
BO naturally expressed itself.
In listening, the Emperor smiled, — and the smile
was born of admiration of his wife.

C H A P T E R VI.
CHARNEY counted the hours, the minutes, the sec
cmds. It seemed to him that the minutest divisions
of time were heaping themselves one upon another
to weigh upon and crush his flower. Two days had
passed; no messenger brought him any tidings.
Girhardi, restless and anxious, knew not what to
think of this silence and delay; he suggested obstacles, answered for the zeal and devotion of the person charged with the message, (without naming his
daughter,) and strove to rekindle in the heart of his
companion a hope that was fast fading in his own.
"Theresa, my child, what may have happened to
thee ? " said he to himself in despair.
The third day passed without bringing to him his
daughter.
During the fourth day Girhardi did not show him*
self at the little window of the court. Charnej
could not see him; but had he listened attentively
he might have heard the prayers, mingled with sobs,
which the poor father addressed to Heaven to avert
this new and terrible blow.
A black veil seemed to have been suddenly drawn
aver this wretched place, which until now, even In

PICCIOLA.

157

the absence of liberty, had been visited by occasional rays of joy and happiness.
The plant drew nearer and nearer its end; and
Charney, inconsolable, stood by, watching the deathagony of Picciola. He had a double cause of affliction,— the loss of the object of his affection, the
charm of his life, and to have humiliated himself
for naught. What! should his haughty head be
bent in vain ? Should he on his knees beg a favor,
and be repulsed ?
As if everything conspired against Charney,
Ludovic, until now so communicative, so genuine,
seemed to avoid even addressing a word to him.
Taciturn and surly, he came and went in the performance of his duties, smoking his pipe, scarcely
glancing at him, apparently vexed with him for his
misfortune.
The truth was that Ludovic, as soon as he knew
of the refusal of the commandant, foresaw the time
when he should find himself placed between his duty
and his inclination. Duty must prevail, and he put
on an air of brutality and ill-nature to give himself
courage.
This mode of action is common with persons unrefined by education. They repress the generous
impulses of their hearts when it is necessary for
them to do harsh deeds, instead of softening the
harshness by an expression of kindly feeling. It
had been by deeds, not words, that Ludovic had
nlways shown the goodness of his heart. Now that

158

PICCIOLA.

deeds of kindness were interdicted, he spoke no
word. The secret pity which he felt for the man to
whom his office compelled him to administer the
tyranny of those in authority, manifested itself in
anger with the man himself. He forced himself to
appear insensible in becoming the agent of a pitiless order. If so he could draw upon himself hatred,
so much the better — his duty would be easier. There
must be war between the victim and the executioner
— between the captive and the jailer.
When the hour for the prisoner's dinner arrived,
Ludovic saw Charney standing beside his plant, in
profound and mournful contemplation. He did not
now, as formerly, advance gayly, saluting his goddaughter with caressing titles, and asking after the
health of Monsieur and Madame; he crossed the
court with a rapid step, affecting to suppose that
Charney was in his chamber, and that he must hasten
to carry him his dinner. But at a movement of
Charney their eyes met, and Ludovic stood still,
struck with surprise at the change that so few days
had wrought in the countenance of the prisoner.
Watching and anxiety had furrowed his brow; his
colorless lips and face, his wasted cheeks, gave him
a broken air, which the disorder of his hair and
beard made still more marked. Spite of himself,
Ludovic was stirred by pitiful emotion during this
survey; but all at once, recalling without doubt his
grand resolutions, he glanced from the man to th&
plant, winked ironically, shrugged his shoulders witk

PICCIOLA.

159

a mocking gesture, whistled an air, and was about to
take his departure, when, with a mournful but ex
pressive voice, Charney said to him, " Ludovic, what
have I done to you ? "
" To me ? — to me ? — nothing," replied the jailer,
troubled by the tone of reproach, and more moved
than he wished to appear.
"Then," said the Count, advancing towards him
and seizing his hand, " let us save her! there is yet
time, and I have found the means. Yes; it cannot
trouble the commandant; indeed he need know
nothing of it. Procure for me some earth and a
box — we will raise the stones — but only for an
instant. Who will know it ? We will transplant"—
"Tut, tut, t u t ! " said Ludovic, bruskly drawing
away his hand; " to the devil with your flower! It
has made trouble enough for all of us, to begin with
you, who will fall ill again. Make a drink of h e r ;
that is all she is good for now."
Charney regarded him with a glance of indignation and scorn.
" If only you were concerned," continued Ludovic, " it is your affair, and that is all; but the poor
old man that you have deprived of his daughter, —
he will never see ner again, and to you he will owe
it all."
" H i s daughter! How? ' cried the Count.
" Ay, how, to be sure !" continued the other, setting his basket of provisions on the ground, crossing
ftls arms, and taking the attitude and air of a mat

160

PICCIOLA.

who is going to scold vigorously; " one whips the
horses, and does not wish the carriage to roll o n !
One strikes the dagger, and is surprised at the
wound! What nonsense. You wished to write to
the Emperor, and you did so; very well —• it is against
the orders of the commandant, and he will punish
you when he hears of i t ; that is right enough. But
you needed a messenger to carry your letter, since
you could not carry it yourself. This messenger was
the young lady."
" What! that young girl — she " —
" You may affect astonishment; did you suppose
your correspondence with the Emperor was to be by
telegraph? — the telegraph has other work to do.
At all events, the commandant has discovered all; —
I do not know how, — by the guide perhaps, for the
young lady could not travel the route alone. Now
the gate of the citadel is closed to her; she and her
father must live apart. Whose fault is it ? "
Charney buried his face in his hands. "Unfortunate old man! " said h e ; " his only consolation ! —
And does he know ? " —
" He has known all since yesterday. Judge how
jnuch he loves you. — But your dinner is getting
cold."
And Ludovic raised the basket and conveyed it
Into the chamber of the prisoner.
The Count sank overwhelmed upon his bench.
For an instant he felt that he himself would crush
Picciola with one blow, and so end all; but hii

PICCIOLA.

161

courage failed. Then a ray of hope shot through
his mind. " That poor young girl, who has so generously devoted herself to the cause of Picciola, and
whose zeal in seeking succor for an unfortunate has
met so cruel a reward, may have returned. Perhaps
she was admitted to the Emperor. Yes, it is so!
Without doubt she has succeeded, and it is that
which has irritated the commandant against her.
If he has in his hands the order for the liberation
of Picciola, why is it delayed ? He must obey the
Emperor's will! Oh ! blessings on thee, noble girl!
Unfortunate child, separated from thy father, on
account of me ! Oh, the half of my life, how gladly
would I give it for thee, for thy happiness. I would
give it only that the door of this prison might be
opened to thee I"
11

C H A P T E R VII.
SCARCELY half an hour had elapsed, when two
civil officers wearing the national scarf, accompanied
by the commandant of Fenestrella, presented them*
selves before Charney, and invited him to ascend tu
his chamber. When there, the commandant spoke.
He was a corpulent man, with a round, bald head,
and thick gray moustache. A scar, from his left eyebrow to nis upper-lip, seemed to divide his face in
two. A long blue coat, with broad skirts, buttoned
to the throat, top-boots over his pantaloons, his hair
slightly powdered, curling at the side, spurs to his
boots, (without doubt a mark of distinction, for the
rheumatism as well as the exigencies of the place
made him in fact the first prisoner in the citadel,) —
such was the exterior of this personage, whose only
weapon was a cane.
Appointed to the custody of political prisoners,
most of whom belonged to distinguished families, he
prided himself on his fine manners, notwithstanding
his frequent loss of temper, and on his fine language,
In spite of accustomed grammatical errors. He held
himself erect, had a voice strong and emphatic, made
many flourishes in saluting, and scratched his fore
head when speaking.

PICCIOLA.

163

"With these qualities, Colonel Morand, commandant of Fenestrella, yet passed for a fine specimen
of a military man.
From the tone of courtesy with which he addressed
him, and the official air of his two companions, Char*
ney believed that they had brought an order of mercy
tor Picciola.
The commandant wished him to say whether he
had ever used him unhandsomely in the exercise of
his functions, by want of care, or abuse of power.
This preamble was a good augury. Charney certified all that the commandant desired.
" You know, Monsieur," continued the commandant, " that during your illness all cares were lavished
upon you; if it did not please you to submit to the
prescriptions of the physicians, it was neither their
fault nor mine. I thought that your convalescence
would be hastened by the freer use of air and exercise, and almost entire liberty was accorded you to
come and go in your court at your pleasure."
Charney thanked him by an inclination of his
head, but his impatience showed itself in the compression of his lips.
"Nevertheless, Monsieur," pursued the commandant, in the tone of a man whose feelings have been
wounded, and whose consideration has been unappreciated, " you have infringed the laws of the fortress,
of which you could not have been in ignorance.
Fou have almost compromised me in my relations
with the Governor of Piedmont, General Menou,

164

PJCCIOLA.

and even with the Emperor himself, in causing te
be placed before him a petition " —
" Placed before him! he has then received it ? *
interrupted Charney.
" Yes, Monsieur."
" Well ? " said the unfortunate man, trembling with
hope.
" For this breach of discipline," said the commandant, " you are to be transferred to one of the cells of
the old bastion, and to be kept in solitary confinement for one month."
" But as to the petition," cried Charney, endeavoring still to combat the cruel reality which was dispelling his last illusions, — " what did the Emperor
say?"
" The Emperor does not trouble himself about
such nonsense !" was the disdainful reply.
Charney sank into the only chair with which his
chamber was furnished, and from that moment seemed
unconscious of all that was passing around him.
" That is not all," said the commandant: " your
means of communication known, your relations with
the world outside discovered, it is natural to suppose
that your correspondence may be more extensive*
Have you written to others beside his Majesty ? "
The commandant waited in vain for a reply, and
resumed in a dryer tone, —
" A visit of inspection has been ordered, and these
gentlemen, delegated by the Governor of Turin, wil]
proceed at once to perform the duty in your presence

PICCIOLA.

165

is the law commands. Before the execution of the
order, do you desire to make any revelations ? Any
luch can only act favorably on your case."
The same silence on the part of the prisoner.
The commandant frowned till his bald head was
wrinkled to the top, and turning towards the officials,
said, " Proceed, Messieurs."
The two then commenced a most vigorous examination, from the chimney to the mattress of the bed,
and even the linings of the clothes of the prisoner.
During this time the commandant paced slowly
back and forth in the narrow chamber, striking, one
by one, with the end of his cane, each plank of the
floor, to judge whether it might not cover some secret
excavation for the concealment of important papers,
or even preparations for an escape. He recalled to
mind Latude and others, who had escaped from the
Bastile. Three moats, deep and wide, walls ten feet
in thickness, gratings, counterscarps, ramparts bristling with cannon, sentinels at every postern and on
every parapet, had been of no avail against the perseverance of a man armed with a cord and a nail.
Fenestrella was far from presenting such a girdle
$f strength and security. Since 1796 only part of
the fortifications had been kept in repair, and it was
only guarded by a few sentinels outside of the outer
walls.
After researches as prolonged as it was possible to
make in so small a roonf, nothing suspicious was
found except a little glass bottle containing a black
icmid, doubtless the ink of the prisoner.

166

PICCIOLA.

Interrogated as to the means employed by him to
Dbtain this ink, he turned on his chair towards the
window, and commenced drumming on the glass with
bis fingers, making no reply to the question.
The dressing-case remained to be examined. The}'
demanded the key. He let it fall rather than gave it
to them.
Colonel Morand no longer showed the same courtesy of look and manner. He was nearly suffocated
with rage. With purple face and flashing eyes, maddened by the confined space of the chamber, he constantly buttpned and unbuttoned his coat, with trembling hands, as if to give vent to the transport of
anger which possessed him.
Suddenly, by a spontaneous movement, the two
satellites of justice, occupied in taking an inventory
of the contents of the dressing-case, holding it in
one hand and examining it with the other, came
quickly to the window, to bring the full light of day
to bear upon it, and, with joyous faces, exclaimed with
one voice, " We have it! we have it! "
Then drawing out from under the double bottom
a quantity of handkerchiefs covered with fine and
close writing, they were sure that they had discovered
proofs of a vast conspiracy.
At the sight of the profanation of his precious
archives, Charney rose, extended his arm as if to
snatch them, opened his mouth; then suddenly
calming himself, he again sat down, and remained
immovable, without having pronounced a word.

PICCIOLA.

167

But this rlrst expressive start had sufficed to cause
flie commandant to attach a high importance to the
capture.
By his order the handkerchiefs were at once deposited in a bag, sealed and labelled ; the bottle and
even the toothpick were confiscated. A report was
prepared and Charney requested to sign it, to attest
its exactitude. With this request, by a gesture, he
refused to comply.
Record is made of this refusal, and his immediate
transfer to the cell of the old bastion is ordered.
Ah, how painful, vague, and confused were the
thoughts that crowded his brain. But one sentiment
of grief overpowered all others in the heart of the
stricken man. He had not even given a mocking
smile at the triumph of these men in carrying off the
record of his observations on his plant, thinking them
materials for law proceedings, and proofs of conspiracy. Alas, he was to be forever separated from his
souvenirs! The lover from ^hom are taken the
letters and the portrait of his adored mistress whom
he will never see again, can alone understand the
profound anguish of the prisoner. To save Picciola,
he had compromised his pride, his honor; he had
broken the heart of an old man, and darkened the
life of a young girl; and of all which had made life
Df any value to him nothing remained, not even the
ines traced by him recording his sacred studies.

CHAPTER

VIE

THE intercession of Josephine had not then been
as effective as it had at first promised to be. Aftei
her gentle pleading for the plant and the prisoner,
when she placed in Napoleon's hand the handkerchief containing the missive, he recalled the offence
to his pride given by the malapropos distraction of
the Empress during the exhibition of the morning
at Marengo, and the signature of Charney increased
the disagreeable impression.
" Has the man become insane ? " said he ; " what
comedy does he pretend to play with me ? A Jacobin botanist! I shall not be surprised to hear Marat
go into ecstasies over the beauties of nature, or to
see Couthon present himself at the Convention with
a rose in his buttonhole."
Josephine would have raised her voice to object to
the title of Jacobin so carelessly given to the Count,
but at this moment a chamberlain came to announce
to the Emperor that the generals, the ambassadors,
as well as the deputies of the Italian provinces,
awaited him in the hall of reception. He hastened
to join them. When there, inspired more by their
pxesence than by the contents of the petition, he

PICCIOLA.

169

took occasion, from the name of the petitioner, to
break forth with great violence against idealists and
philosophers; returning again to the Jacobins^ declaring that he knew very well how to subdue and
bring them to seek for mercy. And he raised his
voice with a tone of menace and resolution, not that
he was really as much excited as he wished to make
it appear, but, always ready to take advantage of
circumstances, he wished that his words should be
heard and repeated, especially by the Prussian ambassador present in the assembly. It was his proclamation of his divorce from the principles of the
Revolution.
To please the master, each one added something
to the speech. The Governor of Turin, above all,
Jacques-Abdallah Menou, forgetting, or rather denying his former principles, broke out into violent
attacks upon the Brutuses of the clubs and taverns
of Italy and France, and there was soon in the im
perial circle a unanimous chorus of virulent imprecations against conspirators, revolutionists, and Jacobins, such that Josephine began to tremble before
the terrible storm which she had raised.
Recovering somewhat from her alarm, she approached the ear of Napoleon, and in a half laughing
tone said,—
" Sire, why all this violence ? It is not a matter
of Jacobins and revolutionists, but of a poor flower
tfho has never conspired against any one/*
The Emperor shrugged his shoulders. " Do you

170

PICCIOLA.

believe that I am duped by such idle talk ?" cried
he. " This Charney is a dangerous man, and not a
fool. The flower is the pretext; the end, the raising of the stones. It is an escape that he is planning. Menou, see that he is well guarded. And
how has he been able to send his petition without its
passing through the hand of the commandant ? Is
this the sort of surveillance that exists in the prisons
of state?"
The Empress tried once more to defend her protegee.
" Enough, Madame," said the master.
And Josephine, abashed and discouraged, was silenced, and dropped her eyes under the look with
which he regarded her.
Menou, vexed by the reprimand of the Emperor,
had not been sparing of his reproaches to the commandant of Fenestrella, and he in his turn had hastened to treat with rigor the two prisoners to whom
he owed such sharp rebuke.
Girhardi, already separated from his daughter, —
who, with a heart full of hope, had only come in
sight of the gates of the fortress to be met with an
order to quit immediately the territory of Fenestrella, to return there no more, — had that morning
been subjected, like Charney, to a domiciliary visit
but there had resulted from it nothing that could
compromise him.
But emotions more painful than those resulting
from the taking away of his manuscript were re
served for the Count.

PICCIOLA.

171

When, to pass to the cell of the bastion, he de*
icended to the court-yard, following the commandant
and his two acolytes, whether Colonel Morand had
not noticed it in passing before, or that he wished
to be revenged for the obstinate silence of Charney
during his visit, his anger seemed to be redoubled
at the sight of the slight scaffolding erected around
the plant.
" What is all this ?" said he to Ludovic. " Is it
thus that you watch your prisoners ? "
" That, my Colonel," replied he, hesitating, with a
sort of groan, with one hand taking his pipe from
his mouth and with the other touching his cap with
a military salute, " that is the plant, you know —
which is so good for the gout and other maladies."
Then, letting his right arm fall to his side, with
his left he replaced his pipe in its habitual place.
" Truly," resumed the Colonel, " if these gentlemen were allowed to have their way, the chambers
and the courts of the citadel would become gardens,
menageries, shops. Come! out of the way with this
weed at once, as well as all this rubbish about i t ! "
Ludovic regarded in turn the plant, Charney, and
tfie commandant; then attempted to murmur some
words of justification.
" Be quiet, and obey instan Jy," cried the Colonel.
Ludovic removed his pipe from his mouth, extinguished it, shook out the ashes, laid it upon a ledge
of the wall, and prepared to execute the order. He
divested himself of his coat and cap, and rubbed

172

PICCIOLA.

his hands together as if to gain courage. All at
once, as if he acquired new strength from the anger
of his chief, he seized and threw away the mattings
of braided straw; he tore them to pieces and dispersed them about the court with a sort of rage.
Next in turn came the twigs which had served as
supports for the matting; these he pulled up one
after the other, broke them over his knee, and trod
them under his feet. It seemed as if his old affection for Picciola had turned to hate, and that he was
wreaking his vengeance upon her.
During this time Charney stood motionless, with
his eyes fixed eagerly upon his plant, thus left shelterless, as if with his gaze he would still protect it.
The day had been cool and the sky cloudy. The
stem had raised its head somewhat since the day before, and from the withered branches had sprung
several little verdant shoots. It seemed as if Picciola
were gathering all her strength to die.
What! Picciola, his Picciola ! his world of reality
and his world of illusions, the pivot on which turned
his life, that which irradiated his thoughts, — all tc
be annihilated ! And he, poor captive, the expiation
of whose crime Providence had suspended, was to be
suddenly arrested in his progress towards true knowl
edge. How should he henceforth occupy his sad lei
pure ? What will fill the void in his heart ? Picciola,
the desert hitherto peopled by thee is to become
again a desert. No more projects, no more study
no more intoxicating dreams, no more observation*

PICCIOLA.

173

to record, nothing more to love! Oh, how narrow
will his prison seem! how heavy the air which he
will breathe! It will be only a tomb — the tomb of
Picciola! This golden branch, this sibylline bough
which has had power to exorcise the evil demons
with which he was possessed, will be no longer there
to defend him against himself. Can he live again
his old life of an incredulous philosopher face to
face with his bitter thoughts ? No! sooner die than
enter again into that chilling night from which she
has drawn him!
At this moment Charney saw a shadow pass the
little grated window. It was the old man.
" Ah," said he to himself, " I have snatched from
him his only blessing, I have deprived him of his
daughter! Without doubt he comes to curse me^
and to rejoice in my torment."
As he glanced up he could see that he was clasping the bars of the window with his feeble hands
which trembled with emotion. Charney did not dare
to raise his eyes to ask from the bottom of his heart
pardon of the only man whose esteem he cared to
possess; he feared to see on that noble countenance
the justly merited expression of reproach or disdain ;
knd when their eyes did meet, the look of tender
compassion with which the poor father (forgetting
his own griefs to sympathize with those of his companion in misfortune) regarded him, touched the
depth of his heart and two tears, the only ones that
ke had ever shed, sprang from his eyes.

174

PICCIOLA.

These tears were sweet to him, but his pride
caused him to dash them quickly away. He would
Hot be suspected of cowardly weakness by the men
who surrounded him.
Of all the witnesses of this scene, the two officials
alone, indifferent spectators, seemed to understand
nothing of the drama which they witnessed. They
looked by turns at the prisoner, the old man, the
commandant, the jailer, — were astonished at the
lively and diverse emotions imprinted on each face,
and whisperingly wondered whether some important
hiding-place was not concealed underneath this plant
so carefully barricaded.
However, the fatal work proceeded. Directed by
the Colonel, Ludovic attempted to throw down the
supports of the rustic bench; but they resisted his
efforts.
" An axe, take an axe," cried the Colonel.
Ludovic took one ; it slipped from his hands.
" Finish immediately!" said the Colonel.
At the first blow the seat cracked; at the third it
fell to the ground. Then Ludovic bent over the
plant standing alone in the midst of the debris.
The face of the Count was wan and dejected;
the sweat stood in large drops upon his brow.
" Monsieur, Monsieur, why kill it ? It will soon
die itself," cried he at last, descending again to the
character of suppliant.
The Colonel looked at him, smiled ironically, and
\a his turn made no reply.

P1CCI0LA.

175

" Then," said Charney, with violence, " I will crush
it! I will tear it up myself!"
" I forbid you to touch i t ! " said the commandant,
with his harsh voice, extending his cane before Charney as if to place a barrier between the prisoner and
his darling. Then, in obedience to an imperative
order from him, Ludovic seized Picciola with his two
hands, and was about to uproot it from the earth.
The Count, struck dumb with grief, stood gazing
at it.
At the base of the stem, near the lowest branches,,
where the sap still flowed, a little blossom, fresh and
brilliant, was just opening. Already the others hung
drooping upon their withered stems. This one alone
still had life; it alone was not wounded, crushed,
stifled, by the grasp of the large, rough hands of
the jailer. The corolla, slightly shaded by a few
leaves, was turned towards Charney. He fancied
that its perfume was exhaled towards him, and,
through eyes dim with gathering tears, he seemed to
Bee it bud, expand, and die. The man and the plant
exchanged a last farewell look.
If at this moment, when so many passions and
Interests were centred in a humble plant, strangers
had suddenly entered that prison-court, where the
heavens shed only a sombre and dim light, would
they not have judged from the picture that met
their view, — these emissaries of justice with their
*ricolored scarfs, this military chief issuing his pitiess orders, — that they were witnessing some secret

176

PICCIOLA.

and bloody execution,— that Ludovic was the execu»
tioner, and Charney the criminal to whom his sen
tence had just been read? And is it not so? Theif
come! these strangers enter ! Behold them!
One is an aid-de-camp of General Menou; the
other, a page of the Empress. The dust with which
they are covered shows with what haste they have
travelled.
They came but just in time.
At the noise which announced their entrance, Ludovic relaxed his grasp of Picciola, raised his head,
and he and Charney, both with pale faces, gazed at
each other.
The aid-de-camp delivered to Colonel Morand an
order from the Governor of Turin; the Colonel
read it, and with a hesitating movement took two or
three turns in the court-yard, striking his cane on
the ground, — compared the missive which he had
just received with that of the day before, — then at
last, after raising his eyebrows again and again in
token of great astonishment, he put on a semi-courteous air, approached Charney, and graciously gave
into his hands the letter of the General.
The prisoner read aloud what follows: —
" His Majesty the Emperor and King has trans*
mitted to me the order, Monsieur the Commandant
to inform you that he consents to the request of
Monsieur Charney relative to the plant which ii
growing between the pavements of the prison-court

PICCIOLA.

177

Those which incommode it must be raised. I charge
you to see to the execution of this order, and to con
suit upon the subject with Monsieur Charney."
" Vive Vempereur ! " cried Ludovic.
" Vive Vempereur!" murmured another voice
which seemed to issue from the wall.
During the reading, the commandant stood leaning upon his cane; the two men of the scarfs, unable
to find the key to all this, seemed confounded, and
sought in their own minds some connection between
these events and the conspiracy which they had imagined. The aid-de-camp and the page wondered
why such haste had been necessary. A t last the
page, addressing himself to Charney, said, "There
is a postscript from the Empress."
And Charney read on the margin: —
" I recommend Monsieur Charney to the kind care
\>f Colonel Morand. I shall be particularly obliged
to him for all that he can do to alleviate the condition
of his prisoner.

Signed:

JOSEPHINE."

" Vive V irwperatrice ! " cried Ludovic.
Charney kissed the signature, and held the paper
leveral minutes before his eyes.
12

BOOK III.
CHAPTER I.
T H E commandant of Fenestrella resumed all hit
courtesy towards the protege of her Majesty the
Empress and Queen. Not only was Charney not
removed to the cell of the bastion, but he was allowed
to reconstruct all the frames for sheltering Picciola,
who now, languishing from her semi-transplanting,
more than ever needed them.
Colonel Morand had so well calmed his rage
against the man and the plant, that every morning
Ludovic was sent with a message from him, asking if
Charney desired anything, and inquiring after the
health of Picciola.
Taking advantage of this good-will, Charney obtained from his munificence pens, ink, and paper, in
order to record anew from memory his studies and
observations on vegetable physiology; for the letter
of ths Governor of Turin did not annul the right ox
search and seizure. The two emissaries of justice
had carried away his archives on cambric, and aftei
* profound examination, declaring that they were
unable, notwithstanding their efforts, to find the key

PICCIOLA.

179

rf this correspondence, they had dispatched it all to
Paris, to the minister of police, there to be studied,
analyzed, deciphered by experts.
But a far more important privation, a loss which
he could not supply, was imposed upon Charney.
The commandant, revenging upon Girhardi the
reproaches of General Menou concerning his careless surveillance, had banished him to another part
of the fortress. This separation, which threw the
old man into complete isolation, weighed upon the
heart of Charney with bitter self-condemnation, and
nullified the effect of the favors of the Colonel to
himself.
He passed a great part of the day with his eyes
fixed upon the grating and the closed window. In
imagination he again beheld the good old man at the
moment when with great ^effort he pressed his arm
through the lower bars, vainly endeavoring to touch
a friendly hand; he saw his petition to the Emperor
grazing the wall, as, tied to the end of a cord, it
mounted to that window, from him to Girhardi, from
Girhardi to Theresa, from Theresa to the Empress;
and behind these bars again shone forth the look of
pity and pardon which had so lately come to him with
jsuch sustaining power in the midst of his anguish;
and he heard the cry of joy burst from a broken
heart when the message of mercy to Picciola had at
last come.
It is to him, to them, that he owes that mercy, and
W that mad attempt which cou?d only benefit hiir

180

PICCIOLA.

they alone had been punished, — cruelly punished
Poor father! poor daughter !
In imagination he often saw her again in the sam6
place where he had seen her for one moment on his
awaking from that painful dream which to him pre
dieted the death of his plant. On that day, in the con
fusion of his thoughts, he had seemed to recognia
in her all the features of the Picciola of his dreams
and it is thus that he now pictures her.
As the prisoner was nourishing these sweet visions
with his eyes turned to the former residence of
Girhardi, something stirred behind the dim and dusty
glass ; the little window was opened, — a woman appeared at the grating. Her skin was brown and
swarthy; she had an enormous goitre, and evil, avaricious eyes. It was the wife of Ludovic.
From that time Charney saw no more bright YI*
km* in looking at the little window.

CHAPTER

n.

F R E E D from her fetters, surrounded by good earth,
irith a large frame of pavement, Picciola repaired her
disasters, raised her head again, and came out triumphant from all her tribulations. Nevertheless
she had lost her flowers, with the exception of the
last little blossom which had opened at the base of
the stem.
In the swelling seed which ripened in the calyx,
Charney foresaw new and sublime discoveries. For
now there could be full development; there was
more than enough earth for Picciola. She might
become a mother, and see her children grow up under her shadow.
In watching it, he was seized with a desire to know
the true name of this companion with whom he had
passed such happy hours.
" What! shall I not give to Picciola, the poor foundling, the name with which science or custom has
dowered her beforehand, in common with her sisters
of the mountains and plains?"
The next time the commandant visited him, Charney spoke to him of nis desire to possess a work on
botany. Without refusing his demand, the Colonel*
wishing to screen himself from responsibility, referred

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the matter to the Governor of Piedmont. Menou
hastened, not only to send him one work upon the
subject, but dispatched an enormous pile of volumes
from the library of Turin, to aid the prisoner in his
researches, — "hoping," wrote he, " that her Majesty
the Empress and Queen, well versed herself in this
sort of knowledge, as in many others, would not be
displeased to know the name of that flower in which
she had shown such a lively interest."
At the sight of this mass of science, which Ludovic,
bending under the weight of the burden, brought to
him, Charney smiled.
" Is there then need of such heavy artillery," said
he, " to induce my flower to give me her name ? "
Nevertheless, it was with a sentiment of real pleasure that he once more held a book in his hand. He
turned over the leaves with that thrill of curiosity
which in old times he had felt when the mysteries
of science were his chief interest. The only knowledge that he desired and coveted now was concerning flowers, the knowledge of Nature in her most
lovely expression of herself.
" If ever I am released from this prison," said he
'iap himself, " I will be a botanist. There, no more
scholastic controversies, and pedantries, which mislead instead of enlightening. Nature must show
herself always the same to her disciples, always true
though changing, always beautiful though unadorned."
And he interrogated the newly arrived volumes

PICCIOLA.

183

asking them also their names and titles. There were
the " Species Plantarum " of Linnaeus, the " Institutiones rei herbariae " of Tournefort, the " Theatrum
Botanicum " of Bauhin, the " Phytograpiha," the
" Dendrologia," the " Agrostographia " of Plukenet,
of Aldrovande, and of Scheuchzer; besides many
others, both French and Italian.
Although somewhat dismayed at this formidable
mass of science, Charney was not discouraged, and,
as a preparation for his premeditated researches, he
opened first the smallest of the volumes to look at
the index, to see how great a variety of denominations a vegetable could bear.
He would have liked to choose in this floral calendar between Alcea, Alisima, Andryala, Bromelia,
Celosia, Coronilla, Euphrasia, Helvella, Passiflora,
Primula, Santolina, or other names sweet to the lips,
harmonious to the ear.
All at once the fear presented itself that his plant
might bear a harsh and ungraceful name, a name
with a masculine or neuter termination, which would
be at variance with all his ideas concerning his little
friend and companion.
What would become of the young girl of his
dreams if he was obliged to apply to her such a designation as Hydrocharis, or Satyrium, or Gossypiunx
Cynoglossum, or Cucubalus, Cenchrus, Ruscus! 01
even some common name more barbarous still, as,
&est-ox, Fly-trap, Sow-bread, Poor- man's -herb,
Crane's-bill, Dog's-tooth, Hare's-ear, Fox's-tail, Snap-

184

PICCIOLA.

dragon, Goat's-beard, or Hart's-tongue ? Would it
not be enough to disenchant him forever ? No, he
would not risk such a trial.
Spite of himself, however, he took up in turn each
volume, turned over the leaves, and went into ecstasies over the innumerable marvels of nature, but was*
irritated by the love of system in men, which had
made of that study, heretofore so attractive to him,
the hardest, most technical, most involved of the
sciences.
For eight days he devoted himself to the analysis
of his plant, in order to learn her name, but without
success.
In this chaos of strange words, tossed from one
system to another, bewildered in the midst of this
vast and ponderous synonymy,—a veritable iron network covering the science of botany as if to hide its
charms, and weighing upon it almost to the point of
suffocation, — in vain he consulted all the authors, one
after the other, descending from class to order, from
order to genus, from genus to species, from species
to variety, constantly losing the trace, and ending by
cursing his unfaithful guides always at variance with
each other, not only concerning the general nomenclature, but sometimes also as to the name and functions of each organ of the plant.
In the midst of his investigations, a thousand times
repeated, the little flower, the only flower, interrogated petal by petal, examined even to the depth of
tts calyx, suddenly became detached under the han*

PICCIOLA.

185

•f the analyzer, the dissector, and fell, tarrying with
it all projects for the study of the seed and all hope
of fructification.
Charney, filled with dismay, stood for a time speech
less ; then apostrophizing with an agitated voice and
a wrathful look the volumes which lay open upon
his knees and around him, —
" Why did I ever think of consulting you ? " cried
he. " She shall be called Picciola! nothing but
Picciola, the prisoner's plant, his consolatrice, his
friend. What need has she of another name, and
why do I wish to know any other ? Fool that I am!
is there no remedy for this thirst for knowledge ?
Can one never be cured of it ? "
And following an angry impulse, he seized the
books one after the other and dashed them to the
ground. A bit of paper fell from the leaves of one
of them and fluttered into the court.
Charney
picked it up and found that it contained these few
words, recently written and in the handwriting of a
woman: —
" Hope, and tell your neighbor to hope, for I do
not forget either of you."

CHAPTER HI.
CHARNEY read and re-read twenty times this note,
Df which the meaning could not be doubtful; for,
among women, one only had been for him all heart,
all devotion: and that woman he had scarcely seen;
he did not know the sound of her voice; and if suddenly she should stand before him, he would not
recognize her. But by what means had she been
able to elude the vigilance of his Arguses and get
this letter to his hands ? " Tell your neighbor to
h o p e ! " Poor daughter, who dared not name her
father! Poor father, to whom he could not even
show this souvenir of his daughter!
In thinking of this good old man, whose burden
of sorrow he had been the means of making so
heavy, and whose pain he was not permitted to assuage, Charney was broken-hearted with regret, and
in his sleepless nights the image of the unhappy Girliardi was ever before him.
During one of these nights an unusual noise was
heard in the chamber above his, which had till theft
been unoccupied; this filled his mind with conject
ures, each one more strange than the other.
In the morning, Ludovie entered his chamber witk

PICCIOLA.

387

an air of business, and although he endeavored to
compose his countenance with discretion, his eyes,
sparkling and animated^ announced some great news.
" What is the matter ? " said Charney to him, " and
what happened last night in the room above ? "
" Oh, nothing, Signor Count, nothing, except that
there arrived yesterday several new prisoners, and
the chambers which have been vacant will now be
occupied. Yes," pursued he, with an affected tone of
consideration, " it will be necessary for you to share
the enjoyment of your court-yard with a companion
in captivity; but do not be troubled, we receive here
only good honest m e n : (when I say honest men, I
mean there are no thieves among them.) But here
comes the new man, to make you his installation
visit."
At this unexpected announcement, Charney rose,
filled with surprise, but hardly knowing whether to
be pleased or annoyed by this change, when he
looked up and saw at the door of his room Girhardi!
Without a word they sprang to meet each other;
their clasped hands bore witness to their joy, and
through their eyes their souls met.
" Well, well," said Ludovic, laughing, " I see that
fche acquaintance will be soon m a d e ; " and he went
Dut, leaving the two together in a transport of delight
After this moment of most expressive silence,
' Who, then, has reunited us.* " said Charney.
a
It is my daughter, I cannot doubt it. How oai

188

PICCIOLA.

I be mistaken ? All the happiness that has come
to me in my life has been through her."
Charney bowed his head with a confused air, and
his hands pressed again those of the old man. Then
drawing from his dressing-case a little paper, he
presented it to him, saying, " Do you know this hand
writing ? "
" It is h e r s ! " cried Girhardi; " it is the writing of
oay daughter, of my Theresa! No, she has not forgotten us, and there has been no delay in the fulfilment of her promise, since we are now reunited.
But how did you receive this ? "
Charney told him, — and then, without thinking,
aaade a movement as if to take possession of it
again ; but seeing Girhardi hold it with hands trembling from emotion, reading it slowly word by word,
letter by letter, kissing it a hundred times, he felt
that it no longer belonged to him, and with the
thought came a sharp pang of regret which he could
a<9t explain to himself.
After the first moments, in which they talked of
Theresa, with all possible conjectures as to her fate
And the place where she might be, Girhardi, looking
with a sentiment of curiosity about the chamber of
his host, stopped before each of the inscriptions on
the wall.
The modification of two of them by added words,
the new-comer had no doubt was owing to the influ.
ence of the plant, and he could easily appreciate the
importance of tlie part it had played in its effect
upon tho prisoner.

PICCIOLA.

189

One of the sentences contained these words: —
" Mankind are on the earth, as they will hereafter
be under it, — side by side, but without any bond of
union. For the body, the world is a populous arena,
where one is jostled on all sides ; for the heart, it is
a solitary desert."
Girhardi took a bit of charcoal and added, —
" If one has not a friend!"
Then turning gently to his companion, he opened
to him his arms.
Still under the influence of the thoughts which
had stirred his inmost soul, with palpitating heart
and moistened eyes, Charney threw himself upon the
offered breast, and the two sealed the holy pact of
friendship by a long and earnest embrace.
The next day they breakfasted together tete-a-tete
in Charney's room, one seated on the bed, the other
on the chair, having between them the little carved
table, upon which, beside the double ration of the
prison, was a fine lake-trout, lobsters from the Cenise, a bottle of excellent Mondovi wine, and an
appetizing morsel of Milesian cheese, known throughout Italy under the name of rubiola. This was a
feast for captives! But Girhardi did not lack
money, nor the commandant complaisance, since
his new orders.
Their conversation was full of confidence and
iweetness.
Charney had never so enjoyed the pleasures of
the tabls; never had repast seemed to him so deli

190

PICCIOLA.

cious. If exercise and the waters of Eurotas served
as seasoning to the black broth of the Spartans, the
presence and conversation of a friend adds still more
to the flavor of the most simple dishes.
Confidences naturally followed. The two already
loved each other so well, though knowing each othef
so slightly. Without questions, without hesitations,
without preamble, simply as the fulfilment of the
contract of friendship entered into the day before,
Charney recounted his pride and self-satisfaction in
his studies, and the ridiculously vain folly of his
youth. The old man then spoke, and confessed
also the errors of his early life.

C H A P T E R IV.
GIRHARDI was born in Turin, where his fathef
possessed extensive works for the manufacture of
arms.
Through Piedmont, ideas, as well as merchandise,
had always passed from France to Italy, and from
Italy to France. Of the one, as of the other, some
remained by the way. The breath of France had
blown upon his father: he was a philosopher, a disciple of Voltaire, a reformist. The breath of Italy
had blown upon his mother: she was a devote to excess. As to him, poor child, — loving, respecting,
listening to them both with the same confidence, —
he necessarily partook of the two natures. Republican, devot, he dreamed of the united reign of religion
and liberty, — a charming alliance, without doubt, but
to be arranged according to his ideas; and he was
twenty. Then, one was young at twenty years.
He hastened to pledge himself to both parties.
At that time the Piedmontese nobility enjoyed
certain privileges humiliating to other classes cf
society. They alone, for example, could occupy a
box at the theatre, and — would one believe it?-—

192

PICCIOLA.

dance at a public ball! for the dance was held to be
an aristocratic exercise, and the common people were
only allowed to be present as spectators.
At the head of a band of young men of the people, Giacomo Girhardi one day openly braved this
singular privilege. He boldly formed a plebeian?
quadrille in the midst of the quadrilles of the nobles. The patrician dancers were indignant; the
plebeian dancers and spectators raised vociferous
cries in claiming the dance for all. To that seditious clamor, other cries of "liberty" succeeded;
and in the tumult which followed, after twenty challenges offered and refused, not from cowardice but
from pride, the imprudent Girhardi, carried away by
the ardor of his youth and his ideas, struck a blow
upon the cheek of one of the proudest and most
mghly titled of his adversaries.
The insult was serious. The powerful family of
San Marsano swore to be avenged; the chevaliers
of Saint Maurice, even those of the Annunciade, in
short, all the nobility of the country, who, in their
peril, became one body — each one felt himself insulted in his own proper person.
By the order of his father, Giacomo took refuge
with one of his relatives, vicar of a small village in
the principality of Masserano, in the environs of
Bielle. But notwithstanding his flight, he was condemned, for contumacy, to five years exile from Turin.
The unwise importance given to the affair, which
war. called " t h e dancing conspiracy," made a here

PICCIOLA.

193

of Giacomo in the eyes of his companions. Some
regarded him as the avenger of the people ; others>
as one of those dangerous innovators who dream of
a universal republic; and while at court the giver of
blows was denounced as one of the most active members of the democratic party, the poor young factionist was quietly aiding the vicar in his parish duties, a constant attendant at church, and a devout
communicant.
This troubled commencement of a life which promised to flow so calmly, influenced for a long time the
fate of Giacomo Girhardi. The old man paid dearly
for the follies of the young man, for upon his arrest
for his pretended crime against the First Consul, his
accusers did not fail to lay great stress upon the
judgment which had long ago been passed upon
him as a disturber of the peace and an ungovernable republican.
From the time of his leaving Turin, and during
his exile, that love of equality which he had received
from his father was extinguished within him, and
the religious sentiments which he inherited from his
mother developed more and more.
He soon carried them to excess; and his relative,
the good and worthy ecclesiastic, whose intentions
were excellent, but whose views were perhaps somewhat contracted, instead of trying to calm his enthusiasm, excited and encouraged it, hoping to make for
him of Christian humility a buckler against the impetuosity of his character. Later he saw how unwise
his course had been.

194

riCCIOLA.

Giacomo had but one desire, made but one vow, —•
to be a priest.
To ward off this blow, which would deprive them
of their only son, his father and mother withdrew
him from the tutelage of the vicar, and taking ad
vantage of his affection for them, they persuaded, o
rather constrained him by supplications and tears,
to marry.
Giacomo married; but his marriage resulted very
differently from their expectations. His wife was
young and beautiful, and he inspired her with the
most tender affection. He used his influence over
her heart, and all the power of his impassioned eloquence, not to set before her the joys of home, but
the delights of a religious life. He succeeded completely —r- so well, that his young wife retired to a
convent, and he returned to the environs of Bielle.
At a short distance from the village rose a chain
of mountains, the last spur of the Pennine Alps.
At the base of Mount Mucrone, the most elevated
of these mountains, was a little valley, sombre and
dark, enveloped in mist, bristling with rocks, bordered by precipices seeming from a distance to answer to Dante's description of the mouth of hell.
But as one approached nearer, the rocks showed
themselves decked with verdure pleasing to the
eight; the precipices were declivities with gentle
slopes, where flowering shrubs formed a ladder of
vegetation; the little hills were covered with natural
thickets; the mists, changing in hue with the ray?

PICCIOLA.

195

& the sun, by turns white, rose-colored, violet, at
f
last wholly disappeared. Then one perceived, at
fche bottom of the lovely valley, a lake five hundred
feet wide, fed by springs, and from which sprang,
with murmuring music, the little river of Oroppa,
which, after flowing a short distance, encircles one
of the hills of the chain at the summit of which is
a church erected at great cost, and dedicated by the
piety of the people to the Virgin Mary. This church
is the most celebrated in the country.
If we believe the legend, Saint Eusebius, on his
return from Syria, deposited in this isolated place
the statue in wood of the Virgin, carved by Saint
Luke the Evangelist, that it might be preserved
from the profanations of the Arians.
In this little valley, on the point of these rocks,
on the slopes of these precipices, on the banks of
this lake and this river, on this mountain, in this
church, at the foot of this statue, Giacomo Girhardi
passed five years of his life, forgetting the whole
world, his friends, his family, his wife, his mother,
for the Virgin of Oroppa!
Not knowing that credulity is not faith, that superstition leads to idolatry, that all excess alienates from
God, it was not the heavenly Mary, the mother of
Christ, that he adored, but his image of the Virgin,
die virgin of the mountain. His days and nights
passed in prayer and tears at the feet oi this image,
repenting of imaginary sins. In vain the good vicar,
alarmed by this fanatical enthusiasm, sought to bring

196

PICCIOLA.

him to reason—everything was useless. In order to
divert his mind from this ardent and dangerous preoccupation, he proposed that he should visit other
places dedicated to the Virgin: but what to him were
Our Lady of Loretto, or Saint Mary of Bologne of
of Milan ? What he adored was that particular
block of wood, black and worm-eaten, and not the
holy mother there so unworthily represented.
What this sentiment lost in depth, it gained in
breadth. The Virgin of Oroppa was surrounded
by a retinue of saints. Giacomo had invested these
with all celestial power, all the attributes of the
Deity. One he asked to dissipate the clouds charged
with hail, which from the heights of Mount Mucrone
sometimes descended upon the valley; another, to
soften the regrets of his mother, or sustain his wife
in her trials; one was to watch over his sleep, an
other to defend him from the tempter; and so on.
His devotion became an impure polytheism, and his
mountain of Oroppa an Olympus where God alone
had no place.
Imposing upon himself the harshest penance and
privations, he fasted, lacerated himself, remained
sometimes three days without nourishment; and the
physical exhaustion which ensued was honored by
him with the name of spiritual exaltation. He had
visions and revelations. He believed with certain
Quietists that by subduing his material nature hf
could make his soul visible. He destroyed his health
and lost his reason.

PICCIOLA.

197

One day he heard a voice from on high ordering him
to undertake the conversion of the heretic Vaudois,
a remnant of whom still existed not far from him in
the Valais. He immediately started, passing through
the country watered by the Sesia, and reached the
summit of the Alps on the side of Mount Rosa; but,
suddenly overtaken by the blocking snows of winter,
in the midst of a company of herdsmen, it became
necessary for him to pass several months under
shelter of the roof of a large chalet.
This chalet, called " the Stables," was an oblong
square five hundred feet long, open only to the south,
made impervious to the air on every other side by
strong planks of pine, filled in with mosses and lichens cemented by gums and resin. Here, in the rigorous season, men, women, and children, with the flocks
they tended, all dwelt, under the sceptre of the oldest man of the tribe. In the centre of the dwelling
was a large hearth constantly supplied with fuel, over
which hung an immense caldron, in which were
cooked, alternately and sometimes together, for the
community, dried vegetables, bacon, mutton, quarters
of the chamois, and the flesh of the Alpine marmot;
which was accompanied, during the repast, by bread
made of chestnuts, and for wine a sourish fermented
fiquot made from whortleberries and a mountaia
grape.
Here, varied occupations — the care of the flocks
and the children, the preparation of cheeses, spinling the hemp, making farming implements, (witfe

198

PICCIOLA.

which in the short summer of this climate to induce
the thin soil of the rocks to be productive,) the garments of sheep-skin, the baskets of bark, little fancy
articles carved in sycamore or larch wood, to be sold in
the towns — kept busy all the inhabitants of the chalety
an industrious and cheerful population, who mingled
their songs and laughter with the sound of the axe,
the wheel, and the hammer. There, labor seemed
sweet; study and prayer were looked upon as a duty
and pleasure. They sang pious hymns with welltrained and melodious voices; the older instructed
the younger in reading and arithmetic, the most apt
in music, and even a little Latin ; for the civilization
of the high Alps, like its vegetation, seems to be
preserved under the snow, at least among this tribe;
and it is not uncommon to see in the early spring
schoolmasters and minstrels descend from these ckalets, imparting instruction and pleasure to those in
the valleys.
The hosts of Giacomo were Vaudois. The circumstances seemed favorable for his plans of conversion, but at the first word upon the subject of
his mission, the chief of the family, an old man of
eighty years, (less respected for his years than for
the virtues and good works which had marked each
day of his life,) imposed silence.
" O u r fathers," said he to him, "endured exile,
dispersion, even death, rather than consent to the
worship of images; hope not then to bring about that
In us which ages of persecution failed to accomplish

PICCIOLA.

19S

in them. Stranger, you are forced to dwell for a time
under our roof; pray in your manner, we will pray
in ours; but unite your efforts to ours in a common
labor, for here, shut out from the stir and diversions
of the world, idleness will kill you. Be our companion, our brother, as long as the snows imprison
us. When the roads are open, you may quit us, if it
pleases you, without blessing the hearth that has
warmed you, without even turning back with a gesture of farewell to those who have lodged and nourished you. You will owe us nothing, for you will
have worked with us ; and if the balance should be
on our side, God will pay us."
Obliged to submit, Giacomo lived five months the
companion of these honest men. During five months
he witnessed their virtues; for five months, morning
and evening, he heard the prayers which they addressed to God alone. His mind, no longer excited
by the sight of the objects of his exclusive worship,
became calm; and when the prison-doors that the
ice had closed were opened by the sun, at the aspect
of the sun and nature in her magnificent expression of herself in these Alpine heights, the idea of
the eternal and all-powerful Creator entered hie
heart with vivid power, and there resumed its rightful throne.
The arrival of the first birds, the sight of the first
piants, springing already in bud from beneath the
snow, the hum of swarms of bees, all excited in him
transports of joy and love.

200

PICCIOLA.

An entire volume would not suffice to paint th«
Innumerable and varied sensations through which
Giacomo passed. During his sojourn at the " Sta«
bles " the good old chief had formed a strong affeetion for h i m ; he knew little of books, but he had
joined his own observations to those his fathers had
taught him, and he delighted to explain the Creator
by the creation. From this asylum which he had
entered, his brain filled with ideas of intolerance
and fanaticism, the converter came out himself converted. The habit of labor, the sight of the family,
turned the thoughts of Giacomo to the duties which
remained for him to fulfil.
Girhardi hastened to the convent of his wife.
A complete romance might be written in recounting the means which he employed to reconquer the
heart which he had once repulsed.
But, to be brief, after unheard-of efforts to wrest
his wife from the cloistral life, to undo himself the
effects of his former teachings, Giacomo Girhardi,
restored to reason, to happiness, to true faith, became the best of husbands, and, after a few years, the
Happiest of fathers.
Twenty-five years of wisdom and virtue redeemed
his errors.
After his return to Turin, in the midst of his own
friends, he established by his industry a business
worthy of him. He possessed a considerable fortune, which his labor would have augmented stiL
more, had not his benevolence formed a channe^

PICGIOLA.

201

through which his wealth flowed away. To do good
was so sweet to him! The love of his fellow-men
filled his heart with joy, and the study of nature
added an inexhaustible charm to his life.
Animated nature excited his most curious investigations ; and as God is great even in the most mi
nute of his works, the religious philosopher chose insects for his study, in preference to any other works
of the sublime Artificer.
By reason of this interest, during his days of captivity, Ludovic had given him the singular cognomen
of " the fly-catcher."

CHAPTER V.
T H E two captives had no secrets from each other
After having rapidly recounted to each other the
principal events of their lives, they went over them
again in detail, to tell each other of the various emotions to which the events had given rise.
They spoke also of Theresa; but at this name
Charney felt the blood mount to his cheek, and the
old man himself became pensive; a moment of silence, sad and solemn, always followed the name of
the absent angel.
More commonly their recitals were interrupted
by some grave discussion on a point of morals, or
by observations on the eccentricities of human nature. Girhardi's mild and benevolent philosophy
made happiness consist in the love of one's neighbor ; and Charney, sometimes disagreeing with hiin
could not understand how this indulgence and ten
derness for men could be retained, notwithstanding
the injustice and persecutions that the virtuous Piedmontese had suffered at their hands.
" But," said he to Girhardi, " did you not curse
these men, when, after having basely calumniated

PICCIOLA.

203

jrou, they deprived you of your liberty and the sight
of— your child ? "
"Ought the fault of the few to fall upon all?
Even those who injured me, who knows ? — deceived by appearances, blinded by political fanaticism, perhaps they did it in good faith! Believe
me, my friend, we must think of the evil that has
been done us, with the idea of pardon at the bottom
of the heart. Which of us does not need it for
himself? Which of us has not mistaken error for
truth ? The apostle John has said that God is love.
Oh ! how beautiful and true is that saying ! Yes, it
is in loving that one rises nearer to God, and receives strength from Him to bear misfortune. If 1
had entered my prison with thoughts of hatred
against humanity, I should without doubt have died
of despair! but no, God be praised, such painful
sentiments were far from me. The recollection of
so many friends remaining faithful in my misfortunes, of so many hearts which suffered in my suffering, strengthened my love to mankind, and the
most trying feature of my captivity was that the
sight of a human being was forbidden me."
" W h a t ! " said Charney, " was your treatment so
harsh and rigorous ? "
" When I was first arrested," continued his friend,
I was carried to the citadel of Turin and placed in
a solitary dungeon, where even my jailer could not
communicate with me. My food was conveyed to
tie by means of a revolving box, and during one

204

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long month nothing came to interrupt that mute
solitude. One must know what I then experienced
to comprehend how certainly, notwithstanding the
reveries of our philosophers, the state of society is
the natural state of the human race, and what horrors are endured by the unfortunate one condemned
to isolation. Not to see a man! to live without a
glance from other eyes, without a voice to strike the
ear, without touching another hand! not to be able
to rest the brow, the breast, the heart, but on cold
and insensible objects! It is frightful! and the
strongest reason must succumb. One month, one
eternal month passed by thus for me. The month
had hardly commenced when the sound of the step
of my jailer, as he came every other day to renew my
food, caused me inexpressible joy. I watched for the
moment with anxiety. I always called good-day to
him through the iron door which separated us, but
he never answered me. I strove during the rotation
of the box to catch a glimpse of his face, his hand,
3ven his dress; I could never succeed. Had his
countenance been marked by cruelty and vice, I
should have found it beautiful. Had he extended
his arm to me even to repulse me, 1 would havo
blessed him ; but nothing! nothing! I only saw him
the day of my transfer to Fenestrella.
" I had then for sole diversion, for my only pleasure, my only companions, spiders, which I watched
for hours. I made of them friends by crumbling mj
bread for them. Rats were not wanting in my dun*

PICCIOLA.

205

geon, but these animals had always roused in me an
invincible aversion. Nevertheless I fed them, although defending myself from their approach and
contact. The care which I took of my spiders, even
the terror with which my poor ugly rats inspired me,
did not serve to divert my mind, and despair took
possession of me in thinking of my daughter."
Charney started at the name. Girhardi understood what was passing in his mind, and hastened to
continue, resuming an air of serenity.
" But a piece of good fortune soon came to me.
The light penetrated into my gallery by a window
strongly barred by a cross of iron, (and it was before
this cross of my prison that I said my morning and
evening prayers;) a shed was in front of this window, so that I could only see a portion of a wall that
seemed to connect two bastions. Above me was the
donjon of the citadel. One day —- merciful Providence, how I thanked thee for it! — the shadow of a
man was cast on the part of the wall which I could
see. The man I could not see, but I conjectured his
movements by those of his shadow. That shadow
came and went; it was that of a soldier recently put
as sentinel on the platform of the donjon. I could
distinguish the shape of his coat, his epaulets, the
projection of his cartridge-box, the point of his bayonet, the waving of his feather. How can I tell
you, my friend, of the joy that filled my heart ? I
Was no longer alone: a companion had come to me!
The next day, and the following days, the shadow of

206

PICCIOLA.

the soldier again appeared upon the wall; his shadow
or that of another. But it was always a man, one
of my kind, who mo^ed, who lived, there, almost
under my eyes! I watched, I followed the alternate
coming and going of the shadow; I made myself
one with it by marching the length of my gallery aa
it marched, turning when it turned. When the sentinel was relieved, I said adieu to the departing one,
and good-day to the new-comer whose turn of duty
it was. I knew the corporal; I distinguished soon
all my military guardians by their outline. Shall I
confess it ? for some I formed an inexplicable preference. From their attitude, their gait, the quickness or slowness of their motions, I formed conjectures as to their age, their character, their sentiments.
One hastened his steps, changed his gun quickly
from hand to hand, or kept time with the motion of
his head as if humming an air; without doubt he
was young and of a lively disposition, and while
singing dreamed of love.' Another passed with bent
brow, stopped sometimes, resting his two arms on his
gun for sorhe moments in an attitude of melancholy;
he thought doubtless of his absent mother, of his
native village, of all that he had left behind him.
He lifted his hand to his face, perhaps to brush away
a tear. For some of these dear shadows I felt a true
affection; I was interested in their fate, I formed
wishes for them, I prayed for them. New tosider
nesses were born in my heart, and consoled it. Bo
lieve me, my friend, we must love our fellow-men
only through that comes happiness."

PICCIOLA.

207

" Excellent man/' said Charney, deeply moved,
who would not love you? Why did I not know
you sooner ? How different my life would have been.
But ought I to complain ? Have I not found here
what the world never gave me, — a devoted heart, a
strong support, virtue, truth, you and Picciola ? "
For amid all these confidences, Picciola was not
forgotten. The two friends constructed together
near her a seat larger and more comfortable than
the first. Here, seated side by side, and with Picciola
in front of them, they felt that they were a company
of three. They called this seat the bench of conference. It was there that the simple modest man was
eloquent in order to be persuasive, was persuasive in
order to be useful; and in him the gift of natural
eloquence and the power of persuasion were not wanting. This bench was at the same time the scholar's
bench and the teacher's desk; there sat side by side
the professor and the pupil, — the professor was he
who knew the least, but knew the best; the professor was Girhardi, — the pupil, Charney, — t h e
book, Picciola.
K

CHAPTER

VL

THEY were seated in their accustomed place. The
autumn approached, and Charney, losing all hope of
the reflowering of his plant, talked with his friend of
his regret for the fall of the last flower. Girhardi,
to supply to him the loss of his observations upon
the seed, unfolded to him many of the wonders concerning the fructification of plants.
There, as elsewhere, the imprint of a divine hand
was seen in all the acts of Nature. Girhardi recounted how the seeds of many plants, whose large
leaves and close foliage would prevent their dispersion, were provided with a feathery tuft, so that the
wind might more easily waft them away; how others,
enclosed in an elastic pod, which bursts with a sudden spring at the moment of their maturity, were
thus thrown to a distance. These plumes and spring!
are feet and wings which God has given them, that
each one may choose his place, and germinate in the
warmth of the sun.
"What eye can follow in their rapid flight through
the air the membranous seed of the elm, the maple.
the pine, the ash, circling in the atmosphere amic

PICCIOLA.

209

myriads of other seeds, floating with their own buoyancy, and seeming to hasten to meet the birds whose
hunger they are to appease ?
The old man explained also how aquatic plants
destined to ornament the banks of streams, or deck
the borders of lakes, are endowed with a form which
enables them to float upon the water, that they may
thus be planted upon the edges of the banks, or pass
from one side of the stream to the other; how, when
their weight compels them to sink, it is because they
will best grow in the bed of the stream, or in the mud
of the morass; how others without seeds multiply
themselves by their roots, by their offshoots reproducing themselves like polyps, and thus put to use the
superabundance of life which animates them; thus
the rushes and reeds spring like an army of lances
from the bosom of stagnant waters, and those beautiful water-lilies, who with feet in the mud beneath,
spread upon the surface of the water their large
glossy leaves, and their snowy white or golden blossoms.
" These wonders exist," exclaimed Charney, " and
|o few deign to observe them! "
This was one of the lessons of the old man.
" My friend," said Charney one day to his companion, as they were seated together on the bench of
conference, " can the insects which you have made
your favorite subject of study, offer you as many marvels to observe as my Picciola to me ? w
" Quite as many," replied the professor. " Believe
14

210

PICCIOLA.

me, you will not thoroughly appreciate your Picciola
until you have made acquaintance with the little
animated beings who come sometimes to visit her
and hover and buzz about her. Then you will see
the many affinities, the secret laws which bind the
insect to the plant, as the insect and the plant to the
rest of creation ; for all springs from one will, all is
governed by one intelligence. From this unity of
design arises that harmony, that general accord, which
we cannot apprehend in its vast whole, but which
nevertheless exists."
Girhardi was proceeding to develop his thought,
when suddenly pausing, his eyes fixed upon Picciola,
he kept silence for several minutes.
" Of what are you thinking, my friend ? " said
Charney.
" I think," replied the professor, " that Picciola is
going to aid me in answering the question you asked
me just now. Look at this butterfly; while I speak,
it forces your plant to contract an engagement with
it. Yes, for it has deposited its hope of posterity in
the keeping of one of her branches."
Charney bent down to verify the fact. The butter*
fly flew away after having covered its eggs with a
gum which fastened them firmly to the stem of the
plant.
"Well," said Girhardi, "do you think it is by
chance or at random that it has thus come to give in
charge to Picciola this precious deposit ? Believe it
not! Nature has assigned to each species of plant a

PICCIOLA.

211

apecies of insect. Every plant has his guest to lodge
and nourish. Now consider how wonderful is the
action of this butterfly. It was first a caterpillar;
when a caterpillar, it was nourished by a plant like
this; afterwards it underwent many transformations
as a butterfly, faithless to its first love, it has flown
from flower to flower, gathering sweets from each.
When the moment of maternity is come to her, who
never knew her mother and will never see her children, (for her work is accomplished, and she is about
to die,) — to her whom experience has taught nothing, — she comes to confide her eggs to a plant like
that which has nourished her in another form and in
another season. It knows that little caterpillars will
come from these eggs, and for them it has forgotten
its own vagrant habits as a butterfly. Who then has
taught it this ? who has given it memory, reason, and
the ability to recognize this plant, the foliage of
which differs to-day from what it was in the spring ?
Practised eyes are mistaken sometimes; but the insect never!"
Charney expressed his astonishment.
" That is not all," interrupted Girhardi; " examine
now the branch chosen by him ; it is one of the oldest and strongest, for the new shoots, feeble and tender, might be frozen and destroyed by the winter's
cold,or broken by the wind, —this it knows also; —
once more, who has taught it ? "
" But," said Charaey, " pardon me, my friend, are
vou not deluding yourself by some preconceived
opinion or system ? "

212

PICCIOLA.

" Silence, sceptic!" cried the old man, with one of
his meaning smiles. " Perhaps you will believe that
which you see. Listen to me. Picciola will play her
part in her turn. It is no longer a question of the
foresight of the insect, but of that of Nature, of one
of those laws of harmony of which I spoke to you,
which forces the plant to accept the legacy of the
butterfly. Next spring we can together verify the
prodigy," said he, repressing a sigh addressed to his
daughter. " Then, when the first leaves of Picciola
show themselves, the little larvae enclosed in the eggs
will hasten to break their shells. You know, without
doubt, that the buds of different plants do not open
at the same time; so the eggs of different species of
butterflies do not open the same day; but here a law
of unity regulates the development of the plant as of
the insect. If the worm appeared before the leaves,
they would find nothing to feed upon ; if the leaves
became firm and strong before the birth of the little
caterpillars, they would be unable to bite them with
their feeble teeth. It could not be so — Nature
never makes a mistake. Each plant in its progress
keeps pace with the march of the insect that it is
charged to nourish; the one opens its buds when
the other breaks its eggs; and having grown and
become strong together, together they unfold theL
flowers and their wings! "
"Picciola! Picciola!" murmured Charney, "yon
have not yet told me all."
Thus, in these sweet teachings, day succeeded U

PICC10LA.

213

day. At evening the captives, embracing each other,
*aid adieu, and retired to their chambers to sleep, or
to think, often unknown to each other, upon the same
object, — the daughter of the old man. What has
become of her since the order of the commandant
had forcibly exiled her from the prison of her
father ?
Theresa had first followed the emperor to Milan ;
but she learned there by experience that it is sometimes more difficult to penetrate through an antechamber than through an army. However, the
friends of Girhardi, excited anew by her, redoubled
their efforts, and promised before long to obtain his
release from captivity. Theresa, encouraged and
tranquillized, returned to Turin, where a relative
offered her an asylum.
The husband of that relative was librarian of the
city. It was he that Menou charged with the selection of books to send to the t fortress of Fenestrella.
From the nature of these books, Theresa had no
doubt for whom they were destined. Therefore the
insertion in one of the volumes of the little note,
whose mystical form prevented any danger of its
compromising either her father or her protege.
She did not know then that her father and Chartiej lived more than ever separated from each other;
Bnd when she learned it from the messenger who
\iad been employed to convey the volumes, terrified
at the effect of perhaps complete isolation upon the
;>ld man, one sole purpose filJed her heart, — to ol>

214

PICCIOLA.

tain the reunion of the two captives; and she was at
last made happy by its accomplishment.
Some time after, when, presented by Madame
Menou to the Governor of Piedmont, she came to
offer her thanks to him, and to pour out before him
her gratitude, the old general, touched by her beauty3
and by the unction of filial tenderness which sho
displayed, laid aside for a moment his ordinary
harshness, and, taking her kindly by the hand, said,
" Come and see me from time to time, or rather,
come to see my wife. Perhaps in the course of a
month I may have some good news for you."
Theresa imagined that the favor to be accorded
her was, that she might return to Fenestrella, to pass
part of her days in prison with her father, and threw
herself at the feet of the general, thanking him
again and again, with a face radiant with happiness.
On a beautiful day in October, which recalled the
spring-time, Girhardi and Charney were sitting on
their bench. Both, silent and pensive, were leaning
on the arms at each extremity of the rustic seat.
One might have thought them indifferent to each
other, but that occasionally the eyes of the Count
rested with an expression of interest and inquietude
upon his companion, who was absorbed in a profound
reverie. The countenance of Girhardi rarely as»
sumed so sad an expression. Charney might easily
be mistaken as to the cause of his sadness.
u
Yes, yes," said he, suddenly breaking this long
lilence, "captivity is horrible, horrible! when it is

PICCIOLA.

215

*ot merited. To live separated from the object of
one's affection — is this life ? "
Girhardi looked up, roused himself from his medi»
tative mood, and said, —
" Separation is the great trial of life ; — is it not
go, my friend ? "
" I your friend!" replied the Count; " do I deserve
that name? Is it not I that have separated you
from her ? Can you forget it ? Ah, do not deny it
— you are thinking of your daughter, and, in thinking of her, you cannot turn your eyes towards me.
I understand too well that when these thoughts come
to you, the sight of me is odious to you."
" You are strangely mistaken as to the cause of
my reverie," said Girhardi. "Never, perhaps, has
the thought of my daughter been more full of sweetness and consolation than to-day, for she has written
to me, — I have a letter from her."
" Is it possible! She has written you ! they have
permitted i t ! "
And Charney drew near the happy father with an
impulse of delight; but instantly repressing it, said,
" But the letter has brought you some sad news."
* N o ; quite the contrary."
" Then why this sadness ? "
" A l a s ! what would you have, my friend? it ia
always so. A regret always mingles with our sweetest hopes. Our joys here below throw their shadow
Defore them, and it is the shadow that first meets
Mir eyes. You spoke of separation here is the let'

216

PICCIOLA.

ter, read it, and you will understand why, by your
side, a sentiment of sadness takes possession of me."
Charney took the letter, and held it for some time
without opening it. He sat with his eyes fixed upon
Girhardi, as if he would divine from the countenance of his dear companion the contents of the
letter; then he examined the superscription, and
recognized, with emotion, the handwriting. At last,
unfolding the paper, he attempted to read it aloud;
but his voice trembled, and his lips refused to utter
the words. After a few sentences, he finished the
letter in silence.
This is what he read: —
" My good Father, —
" Press a thousand kisses upon this letter which
you hold in your hand. I have kissed it a thousand
times, and there is in it a harvest for your lips to
reap."
" A h , dear child, how gladly have I done s o ! "
murmured Girhardi.
" It is for you, as for me, an intense satisfaction, is
it not ? that we are permitted again to correspond.
For this permission we owe General Menou eternal
gratitude. It is he who has put an end to this si*
fence, which separated us even more than the distance between us. Blessings upon him! Henceforward our thoughts, at least, can fly to each other
I can tell you my hopes, and they will sustain you
you can tell me your griefs, and in weeping over

PICC10LA.

217

ftem I shall feel that I am near you. But my good
father, if a greater favor was reserved for us, — oh,
I pray you, stop for a moment here, and prepare
yourself for the sudden joy that I have to communicate. My father, if I should be once more permitted
to return to you ! — to see you from time to time, to
hear your voice, to surround you with my care ! Fof
two years this was happiness enough for me, and then
captivity seemed light to you ! If this hope is real
ized, soon I shall reenter those walls from which I
have been exiled."
" She will come ! what! here ? be with you ? " exclaimed Charney, with a cry of joy.
" Read on, read on," replied, sadly, the old man.
Charney re-read the last phrase, and continued:
"Soon I shall reenter those walls from which I
have been exiled; this makes you happy, truly
happy, I am sure. Dwell a moment on this comforting thought. Your daughter, your Theresa begs
it. Do not hasten to finish this letter; a too vivid
emotion is sometimes dangerous. Is not what I have
said sufficient for you ? If an angel had descended
from heaven charged to fulfil your wishes, you would
not have dared to ask more. I, too exacting perhaps, before he took his flight back, should have
interceded for your liberty, for your complete deliverance. At your age it is so cruel to live deprived
of the sight of your native land. The banks of the
Doria are so beautiful, and in your gardens of La
Colline the trees planted by my dead mother and

218

PICCIOLA.

my poor brother have grown so well. There, theif
memory lives more than in any other spot. Then
you must so long for your friends, your friends whose
generous efforts have so well aided my feeble endeavors. Oh, father, father! the pen burns my
fingers — my secret is about to escape m e ; I have
already betrayed it, without doubt. Arm yourself, 1
pray you, with all your strength and steadfastness,
while I tell you of the happiness which awaits us.
In a few days I shall rejoin you, no more to soften
your captivity, but to bring it to an end; no more
to be with you at stated hours, and within the walls
of a prison, but to bring you away with me, free
and proud! yes, proud : you will have the right to
be so, for it is not mercy that your faithful friends
Delarue and Cotenna have obtained for you, it is
justice, reparation.
"Adieu, my good father. Oh, how much I love you
and how happy I am!

THERESA."

There was not in the letter one word, one single
word of remembrance for Charney. This word he
had sought with a pang of disappointment throughout the letter; but notwithstanding his pain at the
omission, it was a cry of joy that burst from him as
he finished reading.
" You will be free!" cried he ; " you will repose
under the shadow of green trees, and look upon the
Win!"

" Yes," said the old man, " I am going — I an?

PICCIOLA.

219

going to leave you; and this is the shadow that my
joy throws before it, to obscure it."
" That matters not! " replied Charney, proving by
the vehemence of his delight and his generous forgetfulness of himself how worthy he had become of
a friendship. " You will be restored to her at last.
She will cease to suffer for my fault; you will be
happy, and I shall feel no longer this terrible weight
which oppresses my heart. During the little time
that remains to us together we can at least speak of
her."
These lagrt words were spoken in the arms of hii

friend.

C H A P T E R VII.
THE prospect of approaching separation seemed
to redouble the mutual tenderness of the two captives. Always together, they were never weary of
their long and profitable conversations on the bench
of conference.
There was nevertheless a certain grave subject
which Girhardi attempted sometimes to broach, and
which Charney avoided. The old man felt too
deeply its importance to allow himself to be easily
discouraged; for he felt that if he succeeded he
should leave Charney with less regret.
One day the occasion to speak of it was given by
Charney's saying to him, — " Do you not wonder a*
the chance which has brought us together here, —
we who, separated from each other by birth in differ
ent lands, and having imbibed different prejudices,
had by different routes arrived at the same denial of
the Deity ? "
" On this last point I cannot agree with you," replied Girhardi, smiling; " to forget is not to deny."
" Granted; but which of us was the most blind,
die most to be pitied ? "

PICCIOLA.

221

* You," said the old man without hesitation; " yes,
jrou, my friend. All excess may lead man to ruin ;
but in superstition there is belief, there is passion,
there is life. In incredulity there is death. The
one is the river turned from its natural channel: it
inundates, it submerges, it removes the fertile earth
but it impregnates itself with its substance, carries
it away with it, and afterwards may repair the disasters which it has caused. The other is drought,
sterility. It burns, it kills ; it converts the nutritious
earth into sand, and of the opulent Palmyra makes
a ruin in a desert! Infidelity, not content with separating us from our Creator, relaxes the bonds of
society, and even those of the family; in depriving
man of his dignity, it leaves him in isolation and
abandonment, alone with his pride! — I have well
said, a ruin in a desert!"
" Alone with his pride," murmured Charney, as he
sat, his elbow resting on the arm of the seat, his
head on his hand; " the pride of human knowledge!
Why does man take pleasure in destroying the elements of his happiness in wishing to examine into
find analyze them ? Even though he owes this happiness to an untruth, why seek to raise the mask and
hasten to meet the destruction of his illusions ? Is
truth to him so sweet ? Does knowledge satisfy his
desires ? Fool! such was I. I am only a worm;
said I then to myself, a worm destined to annihila
*ion; but raising my head on my dunghill, I was
proui of this knowledge. I disbelieved in happi

222

PICCIOLA.

ness, in virtue, in everything good. But before an
nihilation, my skepticism was arrested — I believed
My degradation I gloried in, because I had discovered it. And was it not a worthy subject for selfapplause? In exchange for this discovery I had
only given my kingly mantle, my treasure of immortality."
The old man pressed the hand of his companion,
and said to him, — " The worm, after having crawled
upon the ground, after having fed upon bitter leaves,
after creeping through the slime of the marsh and
the dust of the roads, will construct his chrysalis, a
temporary coffin, from which he will only come forth
transformed and purified, to fly from flower to flower
and live upon their perfumes ; then, spreading forth
two brilliant wings, it will raise itself towards heaven.
The history of the worm is ours."
Charney made a gesture of dissent.
"Unbeliever!" replied Girhardi, reproving him
by a smile tinged with sadness, " you see your malady was greater than mine; its cure takes a longer
time. Have you then forgotten the lessons of Picciola?"
" N o , " said Charney, with a grave and earnest
voice; " I believe in a God! I believe now in that
First Cause which Picciola has revealed to me, —in that eternal power which so wonderfully plans and
rules the whole universe. But in your comparison
of the worm, the immortality of man is implied, a n i
•rhat proof is there of that ? "

P1CCI0LA.

223

" W h a t proof?" exclaimed Girhardi,— "man's
thought. I t is always of the future, and carries him
unceasingly forward. His life is spent in hoping and
wishing; he is always turning, in spite of himself,
toward this unknown pole which attracts him. Is
this most glorious possession a fruit of the earth ?
Among what people has not a belief in the future
existed ? And why should not that hope be accomplished ? Shall the thought of man go beyond the
power of God? What proof is there ? — I will not
invoke the authority of revelation and the Holy Scriptures. Although convincing for me, for you they
are without force, as the wind which propels the ship
has no power to move the rock, for the rock has no
sails to receive it. But, my friend, shall we believe
in the immortality of matter, and not in the immortality of the mind which enables us to form opinions
concerning matter ? W h a t ! shall virtue, genius,
love come to us through the affinities of certain insensible earthly molecules? Shall that which cannot think have power to make us think ? Can brute
matter have created intelligence, when intelligence
directs and governs matter ? Then the stones ought
to think, ought to love. Speak, speak — answer!"
" That matter might be endowed with ideas, Locke
seemed inclined to suppose," replied Charney; " but
he contradicts himself, for he rejects innate ideas
while admitting intuitive knowledge " — Then, interrupting himself, he said, with a laugh, — " Take
care, my friend! Would you allure me again into

224

PICCIOLA.

this labyrinth, on unstable ground, of inetaphys
ics?"
" I understand nothing of metaphysics," said Girhardi.
" And I not much," replied Charney; " not, however, because I have not given time enough to it.
But let us leave a discussion which can only be unfruitful or fatal. You are convinced; guard your
convictions. I can understand that they are dear
to you; I might shake them."
" You cannot do it; and I accept the contest."
" B u t what have you to gain by such a discusBion?"
" To bring you to a belief full of consolation. You
cited Locke just now ; I know but one thing about
him, and that is, that always, even on his death-bed,
lie declared that the only real happiness for man was
in a pure conscience and in the hope of another life."
" I can conceive how sweet it is to pour out beforehand for one's self a draught of immortality; but
my reason refuses to let me partake of it. Believe
me, it is better that we should talk of it no more."
For a time both sat in a constrained silence.
Suddenly something, after circling in the air above
their heads, alighted upon the plant before them. I t
was a greenish insect, a beautiful striped coleoptera,
with white and waving bands and a narrow corselet
" See, my friend, a diversion comes for us," said
Charney. " Disclose to me yet more of the marvels
of creation."

PICCIOLA.

225

Girhardi took the insect, with certain precautions
examined it carefully, paused for reflection, — then
suddenly his countenance brightened as with the
hope of triumph. One would have said that an irresistible argument had fallen to him from heaven,
Commencing in his ordinary tone of professor,
which became more and more exalted as the secret
object of the lesson penetrated his discourse,
" I , the catcher of flies" said he, with a smile,
" ought, I see, to confine myself to the department
of my modest studies. I am not a learned man."
" The most enlightened, the most thoroughly furnished mind," replied Charney, " soon finds the limits
of its strength and its resources in attempting to
penetrate too far into the mysteries of things here
below. Against these secrets, genius wears itself
out, dashes itself to pieces, without extracting a spark
of the true light."
" We ignorant ones," replied the old man, " go to
the end by tht shortest and easiest road ; we simply
open our eyes, and God reveals himself to us in the
sublimity of his works."
" On that point we are agreed," said Charney.
" L e t us then pursue our route. A plant has
sufficed to make you comprehend that intelligence
which governs the world; a butterfly has enabled
you to catch a glimpse of the law of universal harmony ; — now this pretty coleoptera, who has life and
motion, and whose organization is superior to that of
the butterfly, perhaps will conduct us still farther
15

226

PICCIOLA.

You Lave yet read only one page of the immense
book of Nature; I am going to turn over another
leaf."
Charney drew near, and with an air of earnest
attention examined the insect which the old man
showed him.
" You see this little creature. With the power to
create, all human genius could not add anything to
his organization, so perfectly is it adapted to his need,
and to the purpose for which he is created. He has
wings to transport him from place to place, a shell or
sheath above his wings to protect them, and defend
him against injury from contact with any hard substance ; his breast is provided with a cuirass, his eyes
with a net-work of mail, so that neither the thorn of
a rose nor the sting of an enemy shall deprive him of
sight. He has antennae, with which to interrogate obstacles that present themselves; living by the chase,
he has rapid feet with which to pursue his prey, mandibles of iron with which to devour it, or to dig in
the earth for a dwelling or a deposit for his booty or
his eggs. If a dangerous enemy ventures to attack him
he holds in reserve an acrid and corrosive fluid with
which to defend himself. An instinct born with him
teaches him from the first the means to provide hia
food, to construct his habitation, to make use of his
tools and his armor. And do not think that other
insects are less favored than h e ; all have received
their share in this magnificent distribution of the
gifts of Nature. The imagination is overwhelmed

PICCIOLA.

227

in perceiving the multiplicity of means employed by
Piovidence to insure the existence and duration of
these lower ranks in creation. Now let us compare,
and you will see that this frail creature suffices to
establish the immense line of demarkation which
separates man from the brute. Man has been thrown
naked into the world, feeble, incapable of flying like
the bird, running like the stag, or creeping like the
serpent; without means of defence, in the midst of
terrible enemies armed with claws and stings; without means to brave the inclemency of the seasons,
in the midst of animals protected by fleece, by scales,
by furs; without shelter, when all others have their
den, their hole, their shell; without arms, when all
about him are armed against him. And yet he has
demanded of the lion his cave for a lodging, and the
lion retires before his eye; he has despoiled the
bear of his skin, and of it made his first clothing; he
has plucked the horn from the bull, and this is his
first drinking-cup; then he has dug even into the
bowels of the earth, to seek there the instruments of
his future strength ; from a rib, a sinew, and a reed,
he has made arms; and the eagle, who, seeing him
at first in his weakness and nakedness, prepares to
seize him as his prey, struck in mid-air, falls dead at
his feet, only to furnish a feather to adorn his head.
Among animals, is there one who under such conditions could have preserved life t Let us for a moment separate the workman from his work, God from
Nature. Nature li as done all for this insect, nothing

228

P1CCI0LA.

for man. It is that man should be the product of
intelligence rather than of matter; and God, in granting him this celestial gift, this ray of light from the
divine fire, created him feeble and unprotected, that
he might make use of it, that he might be constrained to find in himself the elements of his greatness."
" But, my friend," interrupted Charney, " of what
value then is this so-called divine faculty to our
species ? Superior to the animals in some respects,
we are their inferiors in many others; and is not
that insect himself, whose marvels you have just
detailed to me, worthy to excite our envy and to give
birth rather to a sentiment of humility than of
pride ? "
" No," replied Girhardi, " for the animals in the
essential operations have never varied. Such as they
are, such they have always been; that which they
know, they have always known. If they have been
'born perfect, it is because there is in them no possibility of progress. They do not act from their own
wil), but from that which the Creator has given them.
Thus, since the commencement of the world, the
beavers have constructed their abode on the same
plan ; the worm and the spider have spun and wove
their cocoon and web after the same forms; the cell?
of bees have always been of the regular hexagon |
and the ant-lions have in all time traced without
compass their circles and spirals. The character of
their industry is regularity, uniformity; that csfhumaf

PICCIOLA.

229

Industry is diversity, for it is the result of free and
creative thought. Judge now! Of all created beings
tnan alone has reflection, invention, the idea of duty
and of hidden causes, contemplation, enthusiasm,
love. He alone determines by reason and not by
Instinct; he alone has any idea of the universe in its
whole; he alone has the knowledge of another world;
he alone knows life and death."
" Without doubt," said Charney; " but, once more,
is this which distinguishes him from the animal so
much for his advantage ? Why has God given us a
reason which misleads, knowledge which deceives us?
With our high intelligence we are often objects of
pity to ourselves. Why is the only privileged being
the only one liable to error ? Why have not we the
instinct of animals, or animals our reason ? "
" Because," replied Girhardi, " they are not created
for the same end. God does not require from them
virtues. Accord to them reason, the liberty of
choice in their dwellings and their nourishment, and
you destroy the equilibrium of the world. The
Creator has willed that the surface of this globe, and
even its depths, should be filled with animated beings,
that life should be everywhere. And therefore in
the plains, in the valleys, in the forests, from the
summit of the mountains to the depth of the mines,
on the trees as on the rocks, in the seas, the lakes,
tihe rivers, the streams, on their banks as in their
beds, in the sands as in the marsh, in all climates^
tnder all latitudes, from one pole to the other, all is

230

PICCIOLA.

peopled, all moves with harmony, as one whole. In
the depths of the desert, as on a blade of grass, the
lion and the ant are each at the post which has been
assigned them. Each one has his part, each one his
place marked beforehand; each one moves in his
appointed circle; each one is enchained within his
limits; for it was necessary that each square of this
immense chess-board should be filled, — and it is
so, — none can depart from his place without death.
Man alone goes everywhere and lives everywhere.
He travels the oceans and the deserts; he plants his
tent upon the sands, or constructs his palace on the
borders of the sea ; he lives amid the snows of the
Alps, or the fervors of tropic heat; he has the world
for a prison."
" But if this world is governed by God," said
Charney, "why are there so many crimes in the
bosom of human society, why so many disasters in
nature ? I admire with you the sublime distribution
of created beings ; my reason is overwhelmed before
that mighty whole ; but when my eyes turn towards
man " —
" My friend," interrupted the sage, " do not accuse
God of the errors of man, nor of the eruption of the
volcano: he has imposed upon matter eternal laws,
and his work is accomplished although a vessel
founder in the storm, or a city disappear in the convulsions of an earthquake. What matter to him 9
few lives more or less ? Does he believe in death '
but to our souls he has left the care of self-govern

PICCIOLA.

231

ment; it is proved by the independence of our passions. I have shown you the animal creation obeying the instinct which leads them, having only blind
tendencies, possessing only qualities inherent in their
species; man alone is the parent of his virtues and
his vices ; to him alone is given free will, for to him
alone is this earth a place of trial. The tree of good
which we cultivate with so much care here below,
will only blossom in the skies. Oh! think not that
God can change the heart of the wicked without doing i t ! that he can let the just suffer without reserving for him a reward! Why should he then have
created us ? If, in this world, we must receive the
reward of our virtues or our crimes, all prosperity
would be honorable, and a stroke of lightning would
be an infamous death !"
Charney was filled with surprise in hearing this
man, so simple, through his convictions become so
eloquent; he watched with admiration his noble face,
through which shone the beauty of his pious soul,
and, notwithstanding himself, he was moved and impressed.
" But," murmured he, " why has not God given us
the certainty of our future ? "
" Has he willed it ? Ought he to have willed it ? "
replied the holy man, rising with dignity, and laying
his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his companion. "Uncertainty perhaps was necessary to
abase the pride of our reason. What would virtue
be if its reward was sure beforehand ? What woulc*

232

PICCIOLA.

become of our free will ? The mind of man is immense and not infinite; it is at the same time great
and restricted: great, that it may comprehend its
dignity and be enabled to rise to God in the contemplation of God in his works; restricted, that it
may feel its dependence upon God. Man, here below, has only glimpses of his future; faith does the
rest. My God! my G o d ! " cried Girhardi, clasping
his hands with fervor, and raising towards heaven
eyes filled with tears, " give me thy strength to lift
up this man who desires to find Thee ! Lend me thy
aid to restore to this immortal soul the wings which
it knows not that it possesses! Let my words be
persuasive as my heart is convinced! But why is
an advocate necessary to plead the cause when all
Nature brings her unanimous testimony? Is even
so much necessary ? A flower, an insect sufficed to
proclaim thy omnipotence, and reveal to him his
future destiny. Let that plant finish its work! Is it
not, my God, like all thy creatures, illumined by
Thee, and endowed with life by the breath that emanates from Thee ? "
The old man then seemed to forget himself in
silent thought; without doubt, his thoughts were
prayers; and when he turned again to his companion^
he found him with his hands clasped on the back of
the rustic bench, his head bowed upon them, and o»
Ms countenance the expression of holy meditation.

C H A P T E R VIII.
I N the purified heart of Charney the blood flowed
more calmly; his broader views made that heart the
home of more gentle, consoling, and loving thoughts.
Like the good Girhardi, he felt in his spirit the need
of that expansion that comes from the sentiment of
tenderness. He delighted to think of those whom
he could feel were bound to him by any tie of gratitude or friendship. The Empress, Girhardi, and
Ludovic were the first to people this new world
then two female shadows were faintly sketched at
either end of this rainbow of love, which followed
the storm, as one sees in altar-pieces two seraphim
with bending heads, floating robes, and wings half
spread, as if to mark the limits of an Eden.
One of these shadows was the fairy of his dreams,
the young maiden Picciola, that sweet image born
of the perfumes of his flower; the other, the angel
of his prison, his second providence, Theresa Girhardi.
By a strange inconsistency the former, which had
wily an ideal existence, alwavs appeared to him uniler a fixed, distinct form; he could see the contrao
Hon of her brow, the sparkle of her eye, her smila

234

PICCIOLA.

As she had appeared to him in his dream, so he had
always recalled her image since. As to Theresa, —
whom he had only once glanced at, and then with
his brain still under the influence of his dream, —
with what features could he invest his thought of
her? The face of the seraph was veiled, and if
Charney would forcibly lift the veil, it was always
the face of Picciola that was revealed — Picciola, as
it were, duplicating herself, to receive the homage
destined for her rival.
One morning the prisoner, though wide awake,
felt himself a prey to this singular hallucination.
The day was breaking; he had already risen, and
was thinking of Girhardi, whose adieus of the previous evening had breathed the most touching regret
in the thought of his approaching separation from
his friend. Charney, after many wakeful hours of
sad anticipation, had risen, and was pacing his chamber, when, mechanically turning his eyes towards the
bench of conference, where the evening before he
had talked with the father, of his daughter, he saw
through the gray morning fog of autumn the figure
of a young girl seated on this same bench. She was
alone, leaning upon the arm of the seat, and apparently contemplating the plant before her. Imrne*
diately he thought of Theresa, and of her arrival.
" It is she," said h e ; " I shall see her for a m a
ment, and then never again! And my dear com
panion will go with her."
As he spoke, she turned her head towards him

FICCIOLA.

235

lind the face which he saw was his ideal image of
Picciola.
Astounded, he passed his hand over his brow, his
eyes, his garments, the cold bars of his window, to
convince himself that this time it was not a dream.
The young girl rose, advanced a few steps towards
him, and, blushing and smiling, made a timid gesture
of salutation. Charney replied not to the gesture
nor the smile. With fixed eyes he regarded this
graceful form as it crossed the court-yard; it was the
same that had appeared to him as Picciola in the
fetes of his dreams, the same that constantly haunted
his thoughts and reveries. Believing that he was
attacked with the delirium of fever, he threw him«
self upon his bed to recover his senses.
A few minutes after, his door opened, and Ludovic entered.
" Alas! alas! good and bad news both, Signor
Count," cried he. " One of my birds is going to fly,
not over the walls, but by the door. So much the
. better for him, so much the worse for you."
" W h a t ! does he go to-day ? "
" I believe not, Signor Count. However, it cant o t be long delayed, for the papers have been signed
in Paris, they say, and are on the way to T u r i n ;
at least the young lady told her father so before me."
" W h a t ! " cried Charney, half rising from his bed,
1
has she arrived? Is she here?"
" She arrived at Fenestrella last evening, with a
permission, in due form, to enter the fortress, but \m

236

PICCIOLA.

fortunately the orders do not allow the drawbridge
to be lowered so late for a woman; so she was
obliged to put off her visit till this morning. 1
knew she was there, but I took good care to say
nothing to the old man; he would not have closed
his eyes all night, and the time would have seemed
BO long, if he had known his daughter was so near
him. This morning she was up before the sun, and
waiting in the fog at the gate of the citadel."
" But," interrupted Charney, astonished and confounded, " did she not remain some time in the
court-yard, seated on the bench ? "
And rushing to the window, he looked eagerly
into the court, but turned again to Ludovic, saying,
" She is no longer there."
" Certainly she is no longer there," replied Ludovic, " but she has been there. Yes, she rested there
while I went up to prepare the good man for her
visit; for one can die of joy, you know. Joy is like
strong spirits: a little drop is good once in a while,
but it will not do to empty the gourd at one draught.
Now they are together, contented enough; and I,
seeing them so happy, felt heart-broken, Signor
Count, in thinking of you who will so soon be without a companion; and so I have come to remind
you that Ludovic and Picciola will still be with you.
She begins to lose her leaves; but that is the effect
of the season ; she must not be despised for that."
And he went out, without waiting for an answd
from Charney.

PICCIOLA.

237

Not yet recovered from his surprise and emotion,
ke sought to explain his singular vision. He decided at last that the sweet image of Picciola the
young girl must have been that of Theresa, of
whom he had had a glimpse through the little
grated window, and that without his knowledge it
was impressed upon his brain, and reproduced in
his dreams.
While he was thus reasoning with himself, the
murmur of two voices reached him from the stairway ; in addition to the well-known step of his friend,
he could distinguish a light and furtive footfall
which seemed to glide over the stones, scarcely
touching them. The measured sound ceased at his
door. He trembled, but Girhardi entered alone.
" She is here," said he, " and awaits us near the
plant."
Charney followed in silence, unable to articulate
a word, his heart filled with a sort of constraint
rather than pleasure.
"Was it embarrassment in presenting himself before a woman to whom he owed so much and could
pay nothing ? Was it the remembrance of the man
ner in which he had received her smile and salute
that morning? Was it that, as the separation approached, his courage and resignation failed?
Whether it was owing to these or other causes, when
he was presented to her, one would never have recognized the polished Count de Charney; the ease
of the man of the world, the self-possession of tha

238

PICCIOLA.

philosopher, gave place to a confused awkwardness,
to which doubtless was owing the apparent coolness
and circumspection with which Theresa clothed her
words and her manner.
Notwithstanding all Girhardi's efforts to bring
about a pleasant relation between his daughter and
his friend, the conversation for a time was only upon
commonplace topics. Recovered somewhat from his
first agitation, Charney saw in the calmness of Theresa's expression only indifference, and easily persuaded himself, that, in the service she had rendered
him, she had only obeyed her natural love of adventure, or the wishes of her father.
He went so far as almost to regret that he had
seen her, fearing to lose the charm with which in
his reveries he had heretofore invested her.
While the three were seated on the bench, Girhardi gazing upon his daughter, and Charney occasionally making an indifferent remark, in a movement
which Theresa made towards her father, a large medallion, suspended about her neck and hidden in her
dress, escaped. Charney could see on one side the
white hair of the old man, and on the other a withered flower carefully preserved under the glass. It
was the flower which he had sent to her by Ludovic.
She had carefully preserved his flower, then,—•
treasured it with the hair of her father, whom she
udored! The flower of Picciola no longer orna^
mented the hair of the young girl; it reposed upo»
Ver heart!

PICCIOLA.

239

This discovery made an entire change in Char*
Bey's sentiments.
He scanned her features anew, as if she had been
metamorphosed, and he might discover there what
had not before been visible. Her face, turned towards the old man, was illuminated by a double expression of tenderness and serenity; she was beautiful then with the beauty of Raphael's virgins, with
the beauty of a loving and pure soul. Charney gazed
on this lovely profile, in which harmonized strength
and sweetness, energy and modesty. It was long
since he had looked upon a human face so glowing
with youth, beauty, and virtue. He was intoxicated
by the sight, and fixing his eyes earnestly on the
medallion, murmured, " You did not then despise
my poor gift ? "
But, low as was the tone in which he spoke, Theresa turned quickly towards him; her first movement was to replace the locket in her dress ; but she
in her turn was aware of the change in the Count's
expression, and as their eyes met, the blood mounted
in the faces of both.
" What is the matter, my child ?" said Girhardi,
seeing her disturbance.
" Nothing," said she ; but instantly correcting herself, as if she scorned to deny a pure and honorable
sentiment, — " It is this medallion ; see, my father,
this is your hair;" then, turning to Charney, — " This
Is the flower, Monsieur, that you sent m e ; J Iiave
kept it, and T shall keep it forevei!"

240

PICCIOLA.

There was in her words and the sound of hef
voice, and in that delicate instinct which led her tc
address her explanation as well to her father as tft
the stranger, so much frankness and modesty, an
expression so tender and chaste, that Charney felt
himself touched as he had never been before.
The rest of the day passed in the effusions of a
friendship which each minute seemed to enhance.
Apart from the secret attraction which sometimes
draws us to another, intimacy grows with a rapidity
proportioned to the time we may have to spend with
our new friend.
Charney and Theresa had never spoken to each
other till to-day, but they had each thought much of
the other, — and they would perhaps have so few
hours together! When Charney, by an instinct of
etiquette and good breeding, rose to retire, saying
that after so long a separation he would leave the
father and daughter alone to enjoy their happiness,
she exclaimed, " Are you going ? " detaining him by
a look, and Girhardi by a gesture. "Are you then a
stranger to my father — or to m e ? " added she, with
a charming tone of reproach.
To convince him that his presence was no restraint upon them, she entered into the detail of all
her adventures since she left Fenestrella, and the
means employed by her to reunite the two captives.
Having finished her recital, she begged Charney to
commence his, and to relate the employment of hif
jays, and his observations on Picciola.

PICCIOLA.

241

He then entered upon the history of his earlier
days in prison, his ennui, and his manual labors, the
welcome appearance of his plant, and its progressive
development, while Theresa with interested and intelligent questions stimulated his narrative.
Girhardi, seated between the two, holding in one
hand the hand of his daughter so lately restored to
him, and in the other that of the friend he was so
soon to leave, listened to them both, looking first at
one, then at the other, with mingled feelings of
joy and sadness. But at one time the old man
drew his hands together, and by the same movement
those of Charney and Theresa. Then the two young
people, agitated, embarrassed, with quickened heartbeats, became silent. At last the young girl, without any appearance of prudery or affectation, gently
withdrew her hand, and placing it upon her father's
shoulder, leaned her head carelessly upon it, in a
charming manner, and smiling, turned her eyes
towards Charney to invite him to continue his discourse.
Drawn on and encouraged by her ease and interest, he even went on to relate his dreams beside his
plant. They were, as I have said before, the real
events of his life in his solitude. He spoke of the
young girl, so lovely and charming, in whom Picciola
the plant was personified ; and while with ardent
enthusiasm he sketched the portrait, Theresa's eyes
drooped, her smile faded, and her breast heaved as
*he listened.
16

242

PICCIOLA.

The narrator took care not to name the true model
of this sweet image; but finishing the history of the
misfortunes of his plant, he recalled the instant
when the dying Picciola, by the order of the commandant, was to be uprooted before his eyes.
" Poor Picciola!" exclaimed Theresa, with irre
pressible emotion, " thou belongest also to me, dear
little one, for I contributed to thy deliverance."
And Charney, transported with joy, thanked her
in his heart for that adoption which established a
•acred tie between them.

CHAPTER

IX.

H o w joyfully would Charney have renounced lib
erty, fortune, the world, if his days might have flowed
thus in prison between Theresa and her father. This*
young girl he loved as he had never loved before
This sentiment, until now a stranger to his soul, took
possession of it, — a sentiment at once violent and
gentle, bitter and sweet, like an acid fruit, which,
though sharp to the taste, leaves a sweet flavor in the
mouth. It revealed itself to him by throbs of a new
joy, by transports of a tenderness which embraced
God, mankind, and all nature. His brain, his heart,
his whole being seemed to dilate with the hopes,
projects, and raptures which swelled within him.
The next day the three were seated in the court
beside the plant; the two friends on the bench,
Theresa opposite to them, on a chair which Ludovic
had provided.
She had brought some woman's
'work, a bit of embroidery; and as she bent over it, —
the soft flush of happiness and satisfaction on her
face, a bright and playful expression about her
mouth, her head following the motion of her needle,
-—she occasionally raised her eyes and smiled in
aaeeting those of her father or Charney, sometimes

244

PICCIOLA.

throwing in a playful remark m the course of their
grave discussion. At last she rose and interrupted
the conversation of the two thinkers, by throwing
her arms around her father and kissing his brow.
The conversation was not resumed. Charney fell
into deep thought.
" Is he beloved by Theresa ? " In asking himself
that question, two different sentiments agitated him:
he feared to believe; he trembled to doubt!
She had preserved the flower he gave her, and
promised to keep it always; she was agitated, the
evening before, when his hand touched h e r s ; her
emotion had been evident during his recital of his
impassioned dreams; but these words, spoken in a
voice so tender, were said in the presence of her
father. What meaning could he give to these charming evidences of pity, interest, and devotion ? Had
she not given him proofs of interest before this
interview, before they had exchanged looks or
words ? Fool! madman! to believe so easily that
he had found a place in that heart, so wholly filled
with filial tenderness, and to mistake for the palpitations of love, the modest agitation of a maiden!
What matter ? he loved her; he would always love
her, and henceforth substitute for an ideal image,
now insufficient, this angelic reality.
But this love must be hidden in the recesses of his
own breast; to ask her to share it would be a crime
Why poison so fair a future ? Does not fate decree
lhat they shall live apart, — she, free and happj

PICCIOLA.

245

wlorning a world where she will soon find one on
whom to bestow her heart, — he, alone, in prison,
where he must ever live with Picciola and his eternal souvenirs of a few happy hours ?
His resolution is taken; from this day, from this
moment, he will affect indifference towards Theresa,
or at least he will disguise his love in the false semblance of a calm and tranquil friendship. Woe to
him, woe to both, if she loves him.
Full of this sage determination, he was aroused
from his reflections by an animated discussion between Girhardi and his daughter; she insisting upon
the probability that his release would be immediate,
he preparing her for the possibility of the close of
the year finding him still in prison.
" I know so well court delays," said h e ; " so little
suffices to suspend justice or the good-will of men in
power."
" If it is so," said the young girl, " I will return tomorrow to Turin, to hasten the execution of their
promises."
" W h a t need of so much haste?" replied her
father.
" W h a t ! do you then prefer your narrow chamber
Mid this dismal court-yard to your beautiful villa and
grounds at La Colline ? "
This apparent disposition of Theresa, this sort of
jnpatience which she manifested to leave Fenes*
trella, ought to have been a satisfaction to Charney
to proving to him that he was not beloved, and thai

246

PICCIOLA.

there was no cause to fear the danger that he had
determined to avoid. However, that which should
have so satisfied his prudent resolutions, on the contrary, so troubled him as to make him altogether forget the role which he had assigned himself. He
neither affected indifference nor a calm and tranquil
friendship. His irritation and annoyance were evident in his manner; but Theresa did not appear to
notice it, except occasionally to banter him upon his
silence and his coolness, and again took up the argument to prove that, if the expected decree was delayed, she ought as soon as possible to go to General
Menou, and even, if necessary, to Paris, to lay the
case before the Emperor.
Ordinarily so quiet and reserved, she seemed suddenly to be actuated by a spirit of loquacity and
raillery.
" W h a t is the matter with you this morning?"
said her father, astonished to see her treat the subject in this way before the poor captive, whom they
were so soon to leave alone.
Charney knew not what to think of her.
The truth is, that Theresa, on her side, had passed
through the same train of thought as Charney. She
was aware, not that love was making his entrance
to her breast, but that it had long ago taken up its
abode there. Like Charney, she was willing to take
for herself its risks and perils, but like him she
dreaded them for the one beloved. And the delight
•f loving, the fear of being loved, threw her into this

PICCIOLA.

247

State of inconsistency with her own natural self, and
was the cause of this incessant flow of words in which
her heart sought to forget itself.
But soon, with one accord, they both ceased all
these efforts, all this constraint to disguise the'r real
sentiments. In listening to the account which Girhardi related of the many prisoners he had known,
who, after their pardon had been publicly announced,
waited many months for their release, they yielded
themselves with delight to the sweet belief that it
would be so now. One would have said, in listening
to their plans and projects for the next and many
following days, that this prison was to be their home
for life, and that, united there with their guardian
angel, the captives had but one thing to fear, — the
liberation of one without the other.
The three being restored to serenity, the philosophers resumed their conversation, Theresa her embroidery and her merry interruptions.
The last rays of the sun illuminated the little court
and the face of Theresa; the breeze played in her
soft curls and in the folds and ribbons of her dress.
Laying down her work, and raising her head, she
shook back her hair and seemed to yield herself to
&n intoxicating draught of air, light, and happiness.
At this moment the door of the court was opened*
Uolonel Morand, followed by an officer and Ludovie,
came to announce to Girhardi his liberation. Gir*
tardi was to leave the fortress immediately; a car
riage was in waiting outside of the gate to convey
lim and his daughter to Turin,

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PICCIOLA.

At the entrance of the commandant, Theresa ha#
risen, but immediately sank again into her chair, and*
with one glance at Charney, all color and smiles faded
from her face. But Charney remained on his seat
with bowed head, while they presented Girhardi with
the papers which restored to him his honor and
liberty.
The preparations for departure could not be long.
Already Ludovic had descended from the chamber
of the ex-prisoner with his trunks. The officer waited
to accompany them to Turin.
The hour of separation had come.
Theresa rose again and appeared to be occupied
with folding her embroidery, and putting it in her
bag; then she attempted to put pn her glove, but her
trembling hands made it impossible.
Charney then, calling up all his resolution, went
towards Girhardi and threw himself into his arms.
" Adieu, my father!"
" My son! my dear son!" faltered the old man.
a
Have courage ; count on us; — adieu, adieu! n
He pressed him again and again to his breast, and
suddenly withdrawing from him, turned to Ludovic,
and, to hide his emotion, gave him several useless
recommendations concerning his care of him who
was to be left alone. Ludovic did not reply, but
gave his arm to the old man, who he saw needetj
support.
During this time Charney had approached Theresa, to take leave of her. Leaning with one hand

PICCIOLA.

249

tn the back of her chair, her eyes fixed on the
ground, she stood thoughtful, motionless, as if nothing had been said of leaving.
When she saw Charney near her, rousing from her
reverie, she looked earnestly at him for a moment
without speaking. He was pale and dejected, and
words failed him. Suddenly the young girl, forgetting her resolutions, extending her arms toward the
captive's plant, said, " I call our Picciola to witness "
— but she could articulate no more.
One of her gloves which she held in her hand fell
to the ground; Charney picked it up, pressed a kiss
upon it, and silently returned it to her.
Theresa took the glove, wiped with it the tears
which were streaming from her eyes, and then returning it with a last smile to Charney, said, " Till
we meet again," and drew her father outside the
little court.
A long time had passed since the gate was closed
between him and them, but Charney still sat, as if
turned to stone, convulsively pressing to his heart
Theresa's little glove.

CONCLUSION.
A PHILOSOPHER has said that greatness must be
abandoned before it can be appreciated; he might
have said it with equal truth of fortune, happiness,
and all those enjoyments to which one becomes sa
easily habituated.
Never had the prisoner appreciated the wisdom of
Girhardi, the virtues and charms of his daughter, till
after the departure of his two friends. For him a
profound depression succeeded to the intoxication of
a few days. The efforts of Ludovic, and the care
which Picciola demanded, had no power to rouse
him; but at length the germs of mental and moral
strength which he had derived from his studies
brought forth their fruit, and the crushed man rose.
In the struggle, his soul learned aew lessons.
At first he rejoiced in his solitude, which enabled
him to think uninterruptedly of his absent friends;
later, he saw with joy some one come to occupy the
vacant seat of the wise old man.
Of his new companions, the first and the most
assiduous was the chaplain of the prison, that good
priest that he had once so rudely repulsed. Informeg

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251

ly Ludovic of the state of melancholy into which the
prisoner had fallen, he presented himself, forgetting
his former treatment, and was received with gratitude
by Charney.
More kindly disposed towards mankind, Charney
soon came to love this one, and the rustic seat became once more the bench of conference.
The philosopher exalted the marvels of his plant
and of Nature, and recounted the teachings of Girhardi; the priest, without entering into the discussion
of dogmas, told him of Christ; and each became
stronger in leaning upon the other.
The second visitor was the commandant of the
fortress, Colonel Morand. Known better, he was a
good enough man; his heart was in a military casing,
that is to say, he was only hard to those in his little
world, by order. He almost reconciled Charney to
subordinate tyrants.
At last Charney said adieu to the priest and the
Colonel. One day, when he least expected it, the
prison-doors opened for him.
On his return from Austerlitz, Napoleon, importuned by Josephine, (who, in her turn, probably submitted to the importunities of another interceding
for the prisoner of Fenestrella,) caused an account
to be rendered to him of the seizure made by the
officers in their visit of search. They brought to the
Emperor the cambric manuscripts, until then deposited in the archives of the Minister of Justice. He
read them over carefully, and declared loudly that

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PICCIOLA.

flie Count of Charney was a madman, but a harmless
one.
tt
He who can so abase his thoughts as to be absorbed in a weed," said he, " may make an excellent
botanist, but not a conspirator. I grant his pardon.
Let his estates be restored to him, and let him cultivate them himself if such is his good pleasure."
Charney, in his turn, left Fenestrella; but he did
not go alone. Could he be separated from his first,
his constant friend ? After having her transplanted
into a large case of good earth, he took Picciola in
triumph with him; his Picciola -— Picciola to whom
he owed reason ; Picciola to whom he owed his life;
Picciola from whose bosom he had drawn consoling
faith; Picciola through whom he had learned friendship and love; Picciola, in short, through whom he
was to be restored to liberty !
As he was about to cross the drawbridge, a large
rough hand was extended towards him.
" Signor Count," said Ludovic, trying to conceal
his emotion, " give me your hand; now we can be
friends, since you are going, since you leave u s ;
since we shall see you no more — thank God ! — "
Charney interrupted him, — " W e shall see each
other again, my dear Ludovic! Ludovic, my friend!"
And after having embraced him and pressed his
hand again and again, he left the citadel.
He had crossed the esplanade, left behind him the
hill on which the fortress is built, crossed the bridge
over the Clusone, and turned into the road to Suza

PICCIOLA.

258

ftrhen a voice from the ramparts reached him, crying,
* Adieu, Signor Count! adieu, Picciola !"
Six months after, one sunny day in spring, a rich
equipage drew up at the gates of the prison of Fen*
estrella. A traveller alighted and inquired for Lu~
do vie Bitti.
It was his former captive who came to pay a visit
to his friend the jailer. A young lady leaned lovingly on the arm of the traveller. That young lady
was Theresa Girhardi, Countess of Charney.
Together they visited the court, and the chamber
where once abode ennui, scepticism, disillusion.
Of all the despairing sentences which had been
inscribed upon the white walls, one alone remained:
"Learning, wit, beauty, youth, fortune,— all are
powerless to give happiness."
Theresa added: — " without love."
The kiss which Charney pressed upon her brow
gave confirmation to the truth of what she had
written.
Before leaving, the Count asked Ludovic to be
godfather to his first child, as he had been to Picciola. Then saying farewell, the husband and wife
returned to Turin, where Girhardi awaited them in
his country-seat of La Colline.
There, near the house, in a rich parterre, brightened
and warmed by the rays of the rising sun, Charney
had ordered his plant to be placed, alone, that no
tther might interfere with its development. By his

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order, no hand but his might touch it or care for i t
He alone would watch over i t ; it was an employment, a duty, a debt imposed upon him by his gratitude.
How rapidly the days flowed by. Surrounded by
extensive grounds, on the borders of a beautiful
river, under a genial sky, Charney tasted the wine of
this world's happiness. Time added a new charm,
new strength to all these ties; for habit, like the ivy
of our walls, cements and consolidates that which it
cannot destroy. The friendship of Girhardi, the
love of Theresa, the blessings of all who lived under
his roof, nothing was wanting to his happiness, and
yet that happiness was to be made still greater.
Charney became a father.
Oh, then, his heart overflowed with felicity. His
tenderness for his daughter seemed to redouble that
which he felt for his wife. He was never weary of
gazing upon and adoring them both. To be separated a moment from them was pain.
Ludovic arrived to fulfil his promise. He wished
to visit his first godchild, that of the prison. But,
alas! in the midst of these transports of love, of the
prosperity and happiness with which La Colline
abounded, the source of all these joys, of all this
happiness, la povera Picciola was dead, — dead fo*
want of care!