A touch of the fatal wand of Truth dispelled at once the dream of the captive. Charney woke to find himself musing on his rustic bench, his feet resting on the stones of the courtyard, and the daylight fading over his head. But Picciola—thanks be to Heaven, Picciola is still before him! The first time the Count became conscious of this species of vertigo he noticed that it was only when meditating in the atmosphere of his plant that such gentle visions descended upon his mind. He recollected that the emanations of certain flowers are of so intoxicating a nature as even to produce asphyxia. It was, therefore, under the influence of his favourite, that these delicious dreams visited his imagination; and for his fête—his houris—his banquets—his music—he was still indebted to Picciola. But the fair girl—the modest, gentle girl by whose image he had been so powerfully impressed—from whence has he derived _her_ image? Did he ever behold her among the haunts of men? Is she, like the other divinities of his dream, the creature of reminiscence? Memory had nothing to reply! The past afforded no prototype for her charms! But the future—if the vision his fancy has created should be the creature of anticipation, of presentiment rather than of recollection? alas! of what avail anticipations—of what avail revelations of the future to the unfortunate Charney! In a sentence of imprisonment for life, the destinies of the captive are accomplished. All human hope, therefore, must be laid aside. The young girl of blooming blushes, and draperies of virgin white, shall be the Picciola of his imagination—Picciola in the poetical personification of a dream—his idol, his love, his bride. The sweet countenance and graceful form revealed to him shall image forth the guardian spirit of his plant: with that, his reveries shall be brightened, and the aching void in his heart and soul filled up for ever! She shall dwell with him, muse with him, sit by his side, accompany his lonely walks, reply to him, smile upon him, enchant him with her ethereal love! She shall share his existence, his breath, his heart, his soul. He will converse with her in thought, and close his eyes to gaze upon her beauty! They shall form but one, in order that he may be alone no longer. These emotions superseded the graver studies of the prisoner of Fenestrella, the enjoyments of the heart succeeding to those of the mind. Charney now gave himself up to all that poetry of existence, from whose sphere the soul returns laden with perfumes, as the bee, after extracting from the breast of the flower a harvest of honey. There was a life of daily hardship and captivity to be endured; there was a life of love and ecstasy to be enjoyed; and united, though apart, they completed the measure of existence of the once envied, but most unhappy Count de Charney. His time was shared between Picciola, his mortal flower, and Picciola, his immortal love: to reason, or rather reasoning, succeeded happiness and love!