“Keep it,” interrupted the fly-catcher with a beneficent smile, perceiving, by the intonation of Charney’s voice, with what regret he was about to resign the solace of his solitude, “keep it in remembrance of a companion in misfortune, who entertains a lively interest in your welfare.” Charney would have expressed his gratitude; but his generous friend refused all thanks. “Let me finish what I have to communicate, ere we are interrupted,” said he. Then, lowering his voice again, he added, “It is rumoured that a certain number of prisoners will be released, and criminals pardoned, in honour of the coronation. Have you friends, sir, in Turin or Milan? Are there any to intercede for you?” The Count replied by a mournful negative movement of the head. “I have not a friend in the world!” was his reply. “Not a friend!” exclaimed the old man, with a look of profound pity. “Have you, then, exhibited mistrust of your fellow-creatures?—for friendship is unpropitious only to those who withhold their faith. I, Heaven be thanked, have friends in abundance, good and faithful friends, who might, perhaps, be more successful in your behalf than they have been in mine.” “I have nothing to ask of General Bonaparte,” said Charney, in a harsh tone, characteristic of all his former animosities. “Hush! speak lower! I hear footsteps,” said Girardi. There was an interval of silence; after which the Italian resumed, in a tone which softened, by almost paternal tenderness, the rebuke which it conveyed. “Your feelings are still imbittered, my dear companion in adversity. Surely your study of the works of Nature ought to have subdued a hatred which is opposed to all the commandments of God, and all the chances of human happiness! Has not the fragrance of your flower poured balm into your wounds? The Bonaparte, of whom you speak so vindictively, surely I have more cause to hate him than yourself! My only son perished under his banner of usurpation.” “True! And did you not seek to avenge his death?” “The false rumour, then, has reached you,” said the old man, raising his head with dignity towards heaven, as if in appeal to the testimony of the Almighty. “_I_ revenge myself by a deed of blood! No, sir! no! My utmost crime consisted in the despair which prompted me, when all Turin saluted the victor with acclamations, to oppose to them the cries of my parental anguish. I was arrested on the spot; a knife was found on my person, and I was branded with the name of assassin; _I_, an agonized father, who had just learned the loss of an only son.” “Infamous injustice! infamous tyranny!” cried the Count, with indignation.