Count Karl gave a long-drawn sigh.  “Alas, that she should have brought discredit on Fraulein di Karski’s profession!”

The duchess hurried straightway to Laura, with whom was Count Serabiglione, reviewing the present posture of affairs from the condescending altitudes of one that has foretold it.  Laura and Amalia embraced and went apart.  During their absence Vittoria came down to the count and listened to a familiar illustration of his theory of the relations which should exist between Italy and Austria, derived from the friendship of those two women.

“What I wish you to see, signorina, is that such an alliance is possible; and, if we supply the brains, as we do, is by no means likely to be degrading.  These bears are absolutely on their knees to us for good fellowship.  You have influence, you have amazing wit, you have unparalleled beauty, and, let me say it with the utmost sadness, you have now had experience.  Why will you not recognize facts?  Italian unity!  I have exposed the fatuity—­who listens?  Italian freedom!  I do not attempt to reason with my daughter.  She is pricked by an envenomed fly of Satan.  Yet, behold her and the duchess!  It is the very union I preach; and I am, I declare to you, signorina, in great danger.  I feel it, but I persist.  I am in danger” (Count Serabiglione bowed his head low) “of the transcendent sin of scorn of my species.”

The little nobleman swayed deploringly in his chair.  “Nothing is so perilous for a soul’s salvation as that.  The one sane among madmen!  The one whose reason is left to him among thousands who have forsaken it!  I beg you to realize the idea.  The Emperor, as I am given to understand, is about to make public admission of my services.  I shall be all the more hated.  Yet it is a considerable gain.  I do not deny that I esteem it as a promotion for my services.  I shall not be the first martyr in this world, signorina.”

Count Serabiglione produced a martyr’s smile.

“The profits of my expected posts will be,” he was saying, with a reckoning eye cast upward into his cranium for accuracy, when Laura returned, and Vittoria ran out to the duchess.  Amalia repeated Irma’s tattle.  A curious little twitching of the brows at Violetta d’Isorella’s name marked the reception of it.

“She is most lovely,” Vittoria said.

“And absolutely reckless.”

“She is an old friend of Count Ammiani’s.”

“And you have an old friend here.  But the old friend of a young woman—­I need not say further than that it is different.”

The duchess used the privilege of her affection, and urged Vittoria not to trifle with her lover’s impatience.

Admitted to the chamber where Merthyr lay, she was enabled to make allowance for her irresolution.  The face of the wounded man was like a lake-water taking light from Vittoria’s presence.

“This may go on for weeks,” she said to Laura.