Penini came home three days ago in a state of ecstasy.  ’No—­he never had been so happy in all his life.  Oh mama, I am so happy!’ What had happened, I asked.  Why, Pen, being on the Pincio, had fallen on the French troops, had pushed through, and heard ‘l’ordre du jour’ read, had made friends with ‘ever so many captains,’ had marched in the ranks round the Pincio and into the caserne, had talked a great deal about Chopin, Stephen Heller, &c., with musical officers, and most about politics, and had been good-naturedly brought back to our door because he was ‘too little to come alone through the crowd.’  What had they not told him?  Such things about Italy.  ‘They hoped,’ said Pen, ’that I would not think they were like the Papalini.  No indeed.  They hoped I knew the French were different quite; and that, though they protected the Holy Father, they certainly didn’t mean to fight for him.  What they wanted was V.E.  King of Italy. Napoleon veut l’Italie libre. I was to understand that, and remember it.’  The attention, and the desire to conciliate Pen’s good opinion, had perfectly turned the child’s head.  It will be ‘dearest Napoleon’ more than ever.  Of course, he had invited the officers to ‘come in and see mama,’ only they were too discreet for this.

Pantaleone is exiled—­ordered to go in eight days, three of which are passed.  He is still in hopes of gaining more time, but the Pope is said to be resolutely set against him.  I am very sorry, not surprised.  He told Robert yesterday, that nothing can be surer than that Napoleon has been throughout a true friend to Italy.  Which is a good deal for a man to admit who began with all the irritation against Napoleon of a Roman of 1849.  Even after the war, through Villafranca, the bad feeling returned, and as he lives so much among the English, it was only natural that he should receive certain influences.  He is with Odo Russell (who calls him Pant) nearly every day, and Mr. Cartwright is very intimate with him besides.  But P. is above all things Italian, and the Italian of the most incisive intellect I ever talked with.  He praises Lord John.

* * * * *

To Miss Browning

[Rome,] [end of March] 1861 [postmark].

We take ourselves to be dismally aggrieved, ever dearest Sarianna, by your criticisms on our photographs.  After deep reflection I can’t help feeling sure (against Robert’s impression) that he sent you—­not the right one, but one which has undeniably a certain ‘grin.’  I prevail with him to let you have the two-third likeness this time, in order to decide the point.  If you keep your opinion, why then all artistic Rome is against you without exception.  Nobody likes the sepia-coloured thing of last year in comparison.  Every album in Rome gives up its dead and insists on the new likeness—­not only is it considered more like, but so infinitely superior in expression and poetical convenance,