Now, with her mother, and her maid Giacinta, and Beppo gathered about her, for three weeks Vittoria had been in full operatic career, working, winning fame, believing that she was winning influence, and establishing a treasury.  The presence of her lover in Milan would have called her to the noble city; but he being at Brescia, she asked herself why she should abstain from labours which contributed materially to the strength of the revolution and made her helpful.  It was doubtful whether Countess Ammiani would permit her to sing at La Scala; or whether the city could support an opera in the throes of war.  And Vittoria was sending money to Milan.  The stipend paid to her by the impresario, the jewels, the big bouquets—­all flowed into the treasury of the insurrection.  Antonio-Pericles advanced her a large sum on the day when the news of the Milanese uprising reached Turin:  the conditions of the loan had simply been that she should continue her engagement to sing in Turin.  He was perfectly slavish to her, and might be trusted to advance more.  Since the great night at La Scala, she had been often depressed by a secret feeling that there was divorce between her love of her country and devotion to her Art.  Now that both passions were in union, both active, each aiding the fire of the other, she lived a consummate life.  She could not have abandoned her path instantly though Carlo had spoken his command to her in person.  Such were her first spontaneous seasonings, and Laura Piaveni seconded them; saying, “Money, money! we must be Jews for money.  We women are not allowed to fight, but we can manage to contribute our lire and soldi; we can forge the sinews of war.”

Vittoria wrote respectfully to Countess Ammiani stating why she declined to leave Turin.  The letter was poorly worded.  While writing it she had been taken by a sentiment of guilt and of isolation in presuming to disobey her lover.  “I am glad he will not see it,” she remarked to Laura, who looked rapidly across the lines, and said nothing.  Praise of the king was in the last sentence.  Laura’s eyes lingered on it half-a-minute.

“Has he not drawn his sword?  He is going to march,” said Vittoria.

“Oh, yes,” Laura replied coolly; “but you put that to please Countess Ammiani.”

Vittoria confessed she had not written it purposely to defend the king.  “What harm?” she asked.

“None.  Only this playing with shades allows men to call us hypocrites.”

The observation angered Vittoria.  She had seen the king of late; she had breathed Turin incense and its atmosphere; much that could be pleaded on the king’s behalf she had listened to with the sympathetic pity which can be woman’s best judgement, and is the sentiment of reason.  She had also brooded over the king’s character, and had thought that if the Chief could have her opportunities for studying this little impressible, yet strangely impulsive royal