“Oh, my Carlo! my lover! my husband! you would not have me go against my nature?  I have seen the king upon the battle-field.  He has deigned to speak to me of Italy and our freedom.  I have seen him facing our enemy; and to see him hooted by the people, and in misfortune and with sad eyes! —­he looked sad and nothing else—­and besides, I am sure I know the king.  I mean that I understand him.  I am half ashamed to write so boldly, even to you.  I say to myself you should know me, at least; and if I am guilty of a piece of vanity, you should know that also.  Carlo Alberto is quite unlike other men.  He worships success as, much; but they are not, as he is, so much bettered by adversity.  Indeed I do not believe that he has exact intentions of any sort, or ever had the intention to betray us, or has done so in reality, that is, meaningly, of his own will.  Count Medole and his party did, as you know, offer Lombardy to him; and Venice gave herself—­brave, noble Venice!  Oh! if we two were there—­Venice has England’s sea-spirit.  But, did we not flatter the king?  And ask yourself, my Carlo, could a king move in such an enterprise as a common person?  Ought we not to be in union with Sardinia?  How can we be if we reject her king?  Is it not the only positive army that, we can look to—­ I mean regular army?  Should we not; make some excuses for one who is not in our position?

“I feel that I push my questions like waves that fall and cannot get beyond—­they crave so for answers agreeing to them.  This should make me doubt myself, perhaps; but they crowd again, and seem so conclusive until I have written them down.  I am unworthy to struggle with your intellect; but I say to myself, how unworthy of you I should be if I did not use my own, such as it is!  The poor king; had to conclude an armistice to save his little kingdom.  Perhaps we ought to think of that sternly.  My heart is; filled with pity.

“It cannot but be right that you should know the worst; of me.  I call you my husband, and tremble to be permitted to lean my head on your bosom for hours, my sweet lover!  And yet my cowardice, if I had let the king go by without a reverential greeting from me, in his adversity, would have rendered me insufferable to myself.  You are hearing me, and I am compelled to say, that rather than behave so basely I would forfeit your love, and be widowed till death should offer us for God to join us.  Does your face change to me?

“Dearest, and I say it when the thought of you sets me almost swooning.  I find my hands clasped, and I am muttering I know not what, and I am blushing.  The ground seems to rock; I can barely breathe; my heart is like a bird caught in the hands of a cruel boy:  it will not rest.  I fear everything.  I hear a whisper, ‘Delay not an instant!’ and it is like a furnace; ‘Hasten to him!  Speed!’ and I seem to totter forward and drop—­ I think I have lost you—­I am like one dead.