Two days previously, she and Laura Piaveni had talked with the king.  It was an unexpected honour.  Countess, d’Isorella conducted them to the palace.  The lean-headed sovereign sat booted and spurred, his sword across his knees; he spoke with a peculiar sad hopefulness of the prospects of the campaign, making it clear that he was risking more than anyone risked, for his stake was a crown.  The few words he uttered of Italy had a golden ring in them; Vittoria knew not why they had it.  He condemned the Republican spirit of Milan more regretfully than severely.  The Republicans were, he said, impracticable.  Beyond the desire for change, they knew not what they wanted.  He did not state that he should avoid Milan in his march.  On the contrary, he seemed to indicate that he was about to present himself to the people of Milan.  “To act against the enemy successfully, we must act as one, under one head, with one aim.”  He said this, adding that no heart in Italy had yearned more than his own for the signal to march for the Mincio and the Adige.

Vittoria determined to put him to one test.  She summoned her boldness to crave grace for Agostino Balderini to return to Piedmont.  The petition was immediately granted.  Alluding to the libretto of Camilla, the king complimented Vittoria for her high courage on the night of the Fifteenth of the foregoing year.  “We in Turin were prepared, though we had only then the pleasure of hearing of you,” he said.

“I strove to do my best to help.  I wish to serve our cause now,” she replied, feeling an inexplicable new sweetness running in her blood.

He asked her if she did not know that she had the power to move multitudes.

“Sire, singing appears so poor a thing in time of war.”

He remarked that wine was good for soldiers, singing better, such a voice as hers best of all.

For hours after the interview, Vittoria struggled with her deep blushes.  She heard the drums of the regiments, the clatter of horses, the bugle-call of assembly, as so many confirmatory notes that it was a royal hero who was going forth.

“He stakes a crown,” she said to Laura.

“Tusk! it tumbles off his head if he refuses to venture something,” was Laura’s response.

Vittoria reproached her for injustice.

“No,” Laura said; “he is like a young man for whom his mother has made a match.  And he would be very much in love with his bride if he were quite certain of winning her, or rather, if she would come a little more than halfway to meet him.  Some young men are so composed.  Genoa and Turin say, ‘Go and try.’  Milan and Venice say, ‘Come and have faith in us.’  My opinion is that he is quite as much propelled as attracted.”

“This is shameful,” said Vittoria.

“No; for I am quite willing to suspend my judgement.  I pray that fortune may bless his arms.  I do think that the stir of a campaign, and a certain amount of success will make him in earnest.”