the bearer of friendly messages to the poor private
in the ranks. From her and from little Jenna,
Wilfrid heard that he was unforgotten by Countess
Lena, and new hopes mingled with gratitude caused
him to regard his situation seriously. He confessed
to his sister that the filthy fellows, his comrades,
were all but too much for him, and asked her to kiss
him, that he might feel he was not one of them.
But he would not send a message in reply to Lena.
“That is also well!” Lena said. Her
brother Karl was a favourite with General Pierson.
She proposed that Adela and herself should go to Count
Karl, and urge him to use his influence with the General.
This, however, Adela was disinclined to do; she could
not apparently say why. When Lena went to him,
she was astonished to hear that he knew every stage
of her advance up to the point of pardoning her erratic
lover; and even knew as much as that Wilfrid’s
dejected countenance on the night when Vittoria’s
marriage was published in the saloon of the duchess
on Lake Como, had given her fresh offence. He
told her that many powerful advocates were doing their
best for the down-fallen officer, who, if he were
shot, or killed, would still be gazetted an officer.
“A nice comfort!” said Lena, and there
was a rallying exchange of banter between them, out
of which she drew the curious discovery that Karl
had one of his strong admirations for the English
lady. “Surely!” she said to herself;
“I thought they were all so cold.”
And cold enough the English lady seemed when Lena led
to the theme. “Do I admire your brother,
Countess Lena? Oh! yes;—in his uniform
exceedingly.”
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.