A misunderstanding arose between France and Austria on a question connected with Servia; it was in outward allusion to this that Napoleon said to the Austrian Ambassador at the reception of the Corps Diplomatique on New Year’s Day, 1859, “Je regrette que les relations entre nous soient si mauvaises; dites cependant a Votre Souverain que mes sentiments pour lui ne sont pas changes.”  Whether there was a deliberate intention to convey another meaning is a matter of conjecture; at all events the whole of Europe gave the words an Italian sense, and Cavour, though taken by surprise, was not slow to turn them to account.  In writing the speech from the throne for the opening of Parliament, he introduced a paragraph alluding to clouds in the horizon, and eventualities “which they awaited in the firm resolve to fulfil the mission assigned to them by Providence.”  The other ministers would not share the responsibility of language so charged with electricity.  Cavour then did one of those simple things which yet, by some mystery of the human brain, require a man of genius to do them—­he sent a draft of the speech to Napoleon and asked him what he thought of it!  The Emperor answered that, in fact, the disputed paragraph appeared too strong, and he sent a proposed alteration which made it much stronger!  The new version ran:  “Our policy rests on justice, the love of freedom, our country, humanity:  sentiments which find an echo among all civilised nations.  If Piedmont, small in territory, yet counts for something in the councils of Europe, it is because it is great by reason of the ideas it represents and the sympathies it inspires.  This position doubtless creates for us many dangers; nevertheless, while respecting treaties, we cannot remain insensible to the cries of grief that reach us from so many parts of Italy.”  Cavour had the French words turned into good Italian by a literary friend (for he always misdoubted his own grammar); one or two expressions were changed; “humanity” was left out.  Did it savour too much of Mazzini?  Victor Emmanuel himself much improved the closing sentence by substituting “cry” for “cries.”  This was the singularly hybrid manner in which the royal speech of January 10, 1859, arrived at its final form.  Much, at this critical juncture, depended on its effect, and nothing is so impossible to foretell as the effect of words spoken before a public assembly.  Cavour stood beside the throne watching the impression which each phrase created; when he saw that success was complete, beyond every expectation, he was deeply moved.  The ministers of the Italian princedoms could hardly keep their virtuous indignation within bounds.  Sir James Hudson called the speech “a rocket falling on the treaties of 1815”; the Russian Minister, waxing poetic, compared it with the shining dawn of a fine spring day.  The “grido di dolore,” rapturously applauded in the Chamber, rang like a clarion through Italy.  And no one suspected whence this ingenious piece of rhetoric emanated!