Austrians had been driven away, for that another and a more formidable foe—­an enemy to society and comfort, to men and horses, to mankind in general would have still to be beaten, expelled, annihilated, in the shape of the carrettiere.  If you employ him, he robs you fifty times over; if you want him to drive quickly, he is sure to keep the animal from going at all; if, worse than all, you never think of him, or have just been plundered by him, he will not move an inch to oblige you.  Surely the cholera is not the only pestilence a country may be visited with; and, should Cialdini ever go to Vienna, he might revenge Novara and the Spielberg by taking with him the carrettieri of the whole army.

At last Casalmaggiore hove in sight, and, when good fortune and the carmen permitted, I reached it.  It was time!  No iron-plated Jacob could ever have resisted another two miles’ journey in such company.  At Casalmaggiore I branched off.  There were, happily, two roads, and not the slightest reason or smallest argument were needed to make me choose that which my cauchemar had not chosen.  They were passing the river at Casalmaggiore.  I went, of course, for the same purpose, somewhere else.  Any place was good enough—­so I thought, at least, then.  New adventures, new miseries awaited me—­some carrettiere, or other, guessing that I was no friend of his, nor of the whole set of them, had thrown the jattatura on me.

I alighted at the Colombina, after four hours’ ride, to give the horses time to rest a little.  The Albergo della Colombina was a great disappointment, for there was nothing there that could be eaten.  I decided upon waiting most patiently, but most unlike a few cavalry officers, who, all covered with dust, and evidently as hungry and as thirsty as they could be, began to swear to their hearts’ content.  In an hour some eggs and some salame, a kind of sausage, were brought up, and quickly disposed of.  A young lieutenant of the thirtieth infantry regiment of the Pisa brigade took his place opposite, and we were soon engaged in conversation.  He had been in the midst and worst part of the battle of Custozza, and had escaped being taken prisoner by what seemed a miracle.  He told me how, when his regiment advanced on the Monte Croce position, which he practically described to me as having the form of an English pudding, they were fired upon by batteries both on their flanks and front.  The lieutenant added, however, rather contemptuously, that they did not even bow before them, as the custom appears to be—­that is, to lie down, as the Austrians were firing very badly.  The cross-fire got, however, so tremendous that an order had to be given to keep down by the road to avoid being annihilated.  The assault was given, the whole range of positions was taken, and kept too for hours, until the infallible rule of three to one, backed by batteries, grape, and canister, compelled them to retreat, which they did slowly and in order.