“Gratitude, for _what, Signor Conte_?” said he. “A plant wants nothing but a sprinkling of water; and one might furnish a whole parterre of them in their cups, without ruining oneself at the tavern. If _la picciola_ diverts you from your cares, and provides you with a specific, enough said, and God speed her growth.” And having crossed the room, he quietly replaced the goblet in its compartment of the dressing-box. Charney, rushing towards Ludovico, now offered him his hand. “No, no!” exclaimed the jailer, assuming an attitude of respect and constraint. “Hands are to be shaken only between equals and friends.” “Be my friend, then, Ludovico!” cried the Count. “No, _eccellenza_, no!” replied the turnkey. “A jailer must be on his guard, in order to perform his duties like a man of conscience, to-day, to-morrow, and every day of the week. If you were my friend, according to _my_ notions of the word, how should I be able to call out to the sentinel, Fire! if I saw you swimming across the moat? I am fated to remain your keeper, jailer, _e divotissimo servo_!” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER V. In the course of his solitary meditations, after Ludovico’s departure, Charney was compelled to admit that, in his relations with the jailer, the man of genius and education had fallen below the level of the man of the people. To what wretched subterfuges had he descended, in order to practice upon the feelings of this kind-hearted and simple being! He had even soiled his noble lips with an untruth. He was startled to discover the services recently rendered by Ludovico to the “_povera picciola_.” The boor, the jailer, morose only when invited to a breach of duty, had actually watched him in secret, not to exult over his weakness, but to render him a service; nay, by his obstinate disinterestedness, the man persisted in imposing an obligation on the Count de Charney. In his walk next morning, the Count hastened to share, with his little favourite, the cruise of water allotted to his use; not only watering the roots, but sprinkling the plant itself, to refresh its leaves from dust or insects. While thus occupied, the sky became darkened by a thunder-cloud, suspended like a black dome over the turrets of the fortress. Large rain-drops began to fall: and Charney was about to take refuge in his room, when a few hail-stones mingling with the rain, pattered down on the pavement of the court. _La povera picciola_ seemed on the point of being uprooted by the whirlwind which accompanied the storm. Her dishevelled branches and leaves shrinking up towards their stalks for protection against the chilling shower, trembled with every driving blast of wind that howled, as if in triumph, through the court.