It is a mean image to say that the entry of the Austrians into the reconquered city was like a river of oil permeating a lake of vinegar, but it presents the fact in every sense.  They demanded nothing more than submission, and placed a gentle foot upon the fallen enemy; and wherever they appeared they were isolated.  The deepest wrath of the city was, nevertheless, not directed against them, but against Carlo Alberto, who had pledged his honour to defend it, and had forsaken it.  Vittoria committed a public indiscretion on the day when the king left Milan to its fate:  word whereof was conveyed to Carlo Ammiani, and he wrote to her.

“It is right that I should tell you what I have heard,” the letter said.  “I have heard that my bride drove up to the crowned traitor, after he had unmasked himself, and when he was quitting the Greppi palace, and that she kissed his hand before the people—­poor bleeding people of Milan!  This is what I hear in the Val d’Intelvi:—­that she despised the misery and just anger of the people, and, by virtue of her name and mine, obtained a way for him.  How can she have acted so as to give a colour to this infamous scandal?  True or false, it does not affect my love for her.  Still, my dearest, what shall I say?  You keep me divided in two halves.  My heart is out of me; and if I had a will, I think I should be harsh with you.  You are absent from my mother at a time when we are about to strike another blow.  Go to her.  It is kindness; it is charity:  I do not say duty.  I remember that I did write harshly to you from Brescia.  Then our march was so clear in view that a little thing ruffled me.  Was it a little thing?  But to applaud the Traitor now!  To uphold him who has spilt our blood only to hand the country over to the old gaolers!  He lent us his army like a Jew, for huge interest.  Can you not read him?  If not, cease, I implore you, to think at all for yourself.

“Is this a lover’s letter?  I know that my beloved will see the love in it.  To me your acts are fair and good as the chronicle of a saint.  I find you creating suspicion—­almost justifying it in others, and putting your name in the mouth of a madman who denounces you.  I shall not speak more of him.  Remember that my faith in you is unchangeable, and I pray you to have the same in me.

“I sent you a greeting from the Chief.  He marched in the ranks from Bergamo.  I saw him on the line of march strip off his coat to shelter a young lad from the heavy rain.  He is not discouraged; none are who have been near him.

“Angelo is here, and so is our Agostino; and I assure you he loads and fires a carbine much more deliberately than he composes a sonnet.  I am afraid that your adored Antonio-Pericles fared badly among our fellows, but I could gather no particulars.

“Oh! the bright two minutes when I held you right in my heart.  That spot on the Vicentino is alone unclouded.  If I live I will have that bit of ground.  I will make a temple of it.  I could reach it blindfolded.”