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I felt a desire to hear, if only for the
last time, those two pathetic lines, -
Chi rende alla meschina
La sua felicita?
Vain hope! here was another separation in the short period of my
unfortunate life. But I will not go into any further details, lest
the world should laugh at me, though it would be hypocrisy in me to
affect to conceal that, for several days after, I felt melancholy at
this imaginary parting.
While going out of my dungeon I also made a farewell signal to two
of the robbers, who had been my neighbours, and who were then
standing at their window. Their chief also got notice of my
departure, ran to the window, and repeatedly saluted me. He began
likewise to sing the little air, Chi rende alla meschina; and was
this, thought I, merely to ridicule me? No doubt that forty out of
fifty would say decidedly, "It was!" In spite, however, of being
outvoted, I incline to the opinion that the GOOD ROBBER meant it
kindly; and, as such I received it, and gave him a look of thanks.
He saw it, and thrust his arm through the bars, and waved his cap,
nodding kindly to me as I turned to go down the stairs.
Upon reaching the yard below, I was further consoled by a sight of
the little deaf and dumb boy. He saw me, and instantly ran towards
me with a look of unfeigned delight. The wife of the jailer,
however, Heaven knows why, caught hold of the little fellow, and
rudely thrusting him back, drove him into the house. I was really
vexed; and yet the resolute little efforts he made even then to
reach me, gave me indescribable pleasure at the moment, so pleasing
it is to find that one is really loved. This was a day full of
great adventures for ME; a few steps further I passed the window of
my old prison, now the abode of Gioja: "How are you, Melchiorre?" I
exclaimed as I went by. He raised his head, and getting as near me
as it was POSSIBLE, cried out, "How do you do, Silvio?" They would
not let me stop a single moment; I passed through the great gate,
ascended a flight of stairs, which brought us to a large, well-swept
room, exactly over that occupied by Gioja. My bed was brought after
me, and I was then left to myself by my conductors. My first object
was to examine the walls; I met with several inscriptions, some
written with charcoal, others in pencil, and a few incised with some
sharp point. I remember there were some very pleasing verses in
French, and I am sorry I forgot to commit them to mind. They were
signed "The duke of Normandy." I tried to sing them, adapting to
them, as well as I could, the favourite air of my poor Maddalene.
What was my surprise to hear a voice, close to me, reply in the same
words, sung to another air. When he had finished, I cried out,
"Bravo!" and he saluted me with great respect, inquiring if I were a
Frenchman.
"No; an Italian, and my name is Silvio Pellico."
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