Milan was now full.  Wilfrid had heard from Adela that Count Ammiani and his bride were in the city and were strictly watched.  Why did not conspirators like these two take advantage of the amnesty?  Why were they not in Rome?  Their Chief was in Rome; their friends were in Rome.  Why were they here?  A report, coming from Countess d’Isorella, said that they had quarrelled with their friends, and were living for love alone.  As she visited the Lenkensteins—­high Austrians—­some believed her; and as Count Ammiani and his bride had visited the Duchess of Graatli, it was thought possible.  Adela had refused to see Vittoria; she did not even know the house where Count Ammiani dwelt; so Wilfrid was reduced to find it for himself.  Every hour when off duty the miserable sentimentalist wandered in that direction, nursing the pangs of a delicious tragedy of emotions; he was like a drunkard going to his draught.  As soon as he had reached the head of the Corso, he wheeled and marched away from it with a lofty head, internally grinning at his abject folly, and marvelling at the stiff figure of an Austrian common soldier which flashed by the windows as he passed.  He who can unite prudence and madness, sagacity and stupidity, is the true buffoon; nor, vindictive as were his sensations, was Wilfrid unaware of the contrast of Vittoria’s soul to his own, that was now made up of antics.  He could not endure the tones of cathedral music; but he had at times to kneel and listen to it, and be overcome.

On a night in the month of February, a servant out of livery addressed him at the barrack-gates, requesting him to go at once to a certain hotel, where his sister was staying.  He went, and found there, not his sister, but Countess Medole.  She smiled at his confusion.  Both she and the prince, she said, had spared no effort to get him reinstated in his rank; but his uncle continually opposed the endeavours of all his friends to serve him.  This interview was dictated by the prince’s wish, so that he might know them to be a not ungrateful couple.  Wilfrid’s embarrassment in standing before a lady in private soldier’s uniform, enabled him with very peculiar dignity to declare that his present degradation, from the General’s point of view, was a just punishment, and he did not crave to have it abated.  She remarked that it must end soon.  He made a dim allusion to the littleness of humanity.  She laughed.  “It’s the language of an unfortunate lover,” she said, and straightway, in some undistinguished sentence, brought the name of Countess Alessandra Ammiani tingling to his ears.  She feared that she could not be of service to him there; “at least, not just yet,” the lady astonished him by remarking.  “I might help you to see her.  If you take my advice you will wait patiently.  You know us well enough to understand what patience will do.  She is supposed to have married for love.  Whether she did or not, you must allow a young married woman two years’ grace.”