‘Medole,’ he said, ’has the principal conduct of the business in Milan, as you know, countess.  Our Chief cannot be everywhere at once; so Medole undertakes to decide for him here in old Milan.  He decided yesterday afternoon to put off our holiday for what he calls a week.  Checco, the idiot, in whom he confides, gave me the paper signifying the fact at four o’clock.  There was no appeal; for we can get no place of general meeting under Medole’s prudent management.  He fears our being swallowed in a body if we all meet.’

The news sent her heart sinking in short throbs down to a delicious rest; but Countess Ammiani disdained to be servile to the pleasure, even as she had strengthened herself to endure the shocks of pain.  It was a conquered heart that she and every Venetian and Lombard mother had to carry; one that played its tune according to its nature, shaping no action, sporting no mask.  If you know what is meant by that phrase, a conquered heart, you will at least respect them whom you call weak women for having gone through the harshest schooling which this world can show example of.  In such mothers Italy revived.  The pangs and the martyrdom were theirs.  Fathers could march to the field or to the grey glacis with their boys; there was no intoxication of hot blood to cheer those who sat at home watching the rise and fall of trembling scales which said life or death for their dearest.  Their least shadowy hope could be but a shrouded contentment in prospect; a shrouded submission in feeling.  What bloom of hope was there when Austria stood like an iron wall, and their own ones dashing against it were as little feeble waves that left a red mark and no more?  But, duty to their country had become their religion; sacrifice they accepted as their portion; when the last stern evil befell them they clad themselves in a veil and walked upon an earth they had passed from for all purposes save service of hands.  Italy revived in these mothers.  Their torture was that of the re-animation of her frame from the death-trance.

Carlo and Luciano fell hungrily upon dishes of herb-flavoured cutlets, and Neapolitan maccaroni, green figs, green and red slices of melon, chocolate, and a dry red Florentine wine.  The countess let them eat, and then gave her son a letter that been delivered at her door an hour back by the confectioner Zotti.  It proved to be an enclosure of a letter addressed to Vittoria by the Chief.  Genoa was its superscription.  From that place it was forwarded by running relays of volunteer messengers.  There were points of Italy which the Chief could reach four-and-twenty hours in advance of the Government with all its aids and machinery.  Vittoria had simply put her initials at the foot of the letter.  Carlo read it eagerly and cast it aside.  It dealt in ideas and abstract phraseology; he could get nothing of it between his impatient teeth; he was reduced to a blank wonder at the reason for her sending it on to him.  It said indeed—­and so far it seemed to have a meaning for her: