But this was a thing which the jailer dared not do. The rules of the
prison were strict, and no stone must be moved. Only the highest
officers in the land could have such a thing done.
Poor Charney could not sleep. Picciola must die. Already the flowers
had with-ered; the leaves would soon fall from the stem.
Then a new thought came to Charney. He would ask the great Napoleon,
the em-per-or himself, to save his plant.
It was a hard thing for Charney to do,--to ask a favor of the man whom
he hated, the man who had shut him up in this very prison. But for the
sake of Picciola he would do it.
He wrote his little story on his hand-ker-chief. Then he gave it into
the care of a young girl, who promised to carry it to Napoleon. Ah! if
the poor plant would only live a few days longer!
What a long journey that was for the young girl! What a long, dreary
waiting it was for Charney and Picciola!
But at last news came to the prison. The stones were to be taken up.
Picciola was saved!
The em-per-or's kind wife had heard the story of Charney's care for
the plant. She saw the handkerchief on which he had written of its
pretty ways.
"Surely," she said, "it can do us no good to keep such a man in
prison.
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