At length, by a spontaneous movement, the two sbirri, occupied in the examination of the casket, holding it in one hand and turning over its contents with the other, advanced towards the window, to ascertain whether it contained secret drawers, and immediately exclaimed, in tones of triumph, “All’s right! The mystery is in our hands.” Drawing out from beneath the false bottom of the case a number of cambric handkerchiefs, closely scribbled over and carefully folded, they were satisfied of having obtained possession of the proofs of a widely organized conspiracy; for at this profanation of the sacred archives so dear to him, Charney started up and extended his hand to snatch back the treasures of which he saw himself despoiled. Then, struck by the consciousness of his own incapacity of resistance, he reseated himself in his chair, without uttering a syllable of remonstrance. But the impetuosity of his first movements was not lost upon the governor; who saw at once that the documents which had fallen into his hands were of the highest importance in the estimation of the Count. The handkerchiefs, therefore, were deposited, on the spot, in a government despatch-bag, duly sealed and docketed. Even the soot-bottle and tooth-pick were confiscated to the state! A report was drawn up of the proceedings which had taken place, to which the signature of Charney was formally demanded—impatiently refused—and the refusal duly recorded at the end of the document; after which, the commandant issued his mandate for the immediate transfer of the prisoner to the northern bastion. What vague, confused, and painful emotions prevailed, meanwhile, in the mind of the prisoner! Charney was alive only to a single stroke of his afflictions; a stroke which deadened his consciousness of all the rest. He had not so much as a smile of pity to bestow upon the imaginary triumph of the blockheads who were carrying off what they supposed to be the groundwork of a criminal impeachment; but which consisted in a series of scientific observations upon the growth and properties of his plant. Yes, even his tenderest recollections snatched from his possession, and an impassioned lover required to give up the letters of his mistress, can alone enter into the despair of the captive. To preserve Picciola from destruction, he had tarnished his honour, his self-esteem; broken the heart of a benevolent old man; destroyed the happiness of a gentle and lovely girl; and of all that had sufficed to attach him to a life of wretchedness. Every trace is now effaced—every record destroyed—the very journal of those happy hours which he had enjoyed in the presence of his idol, is torn for ever from his possession! [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VIII.