Speaking to her son on this subject, she thought it necessary to make some excuse for a singer’s instinct, who really did not live save on the stage.  It amused Carlo; he knew when his mother was really angry with persons she tried to shield from the anger of others; and her not seeing the wrong on his side in his behaviour to his betrothed was laughable.  Nevertheless she had divined the case more correctly than he:  the lover was hurt.  After what he had endured, he supposed, with all his forgiveness, that he had an illimitable claim upon his bride’s patience.  He told his another to speak to her openly.

“Why not you, my Carlo?” said the countess.

“Because, mother, if I speak to her, I shall end by throwing out my arms and calling for the priest.”

“I would clap hands to that.”

“We will see; it may be soon or late, but it can’t be now.”

“How much am I to tell her, Carlo?”

“Enough to keep her from fretting.”

The countess then asked herself how much she knew.  Her habit of receiving her son’s word and will as supreme kept her ignorant of anything beyond the outline of his plans; and being told to speak openly of them to another, she discovered that her acquiescing imagination supplied the chief part of her knowledge.  She was ashamed also to have it thought, even by Carlo, that she had not gathered every detail of his occupation, so that she could not argue against him, and had to submit to see her dearest wishes lightly swept aside.

“I beg you to tell me what you think of Countess d’Isorella; not the afterthought,” she said to Vittoria.

“She is beautiful, dear Countess Ammiani.”

“Call me mother now and then.  Yes; she is beautiful.  She has a bad name.”

“Envy must have given it, I think.”

“Of course she provokes envy.  But I say that her name is bad, as envy could not make it.  She is a woman who goes on missions, and carries a husband into society like a passport.  You have only thought of her beauty?”

“I can see nothing else,” said Vittoria, whose torture at the sight of the beauty was appeased by her disingenuous pleading on its behalf.

“In my time Beauty was a sinner,” the countess resumed.  “My confessor has filled my ears with warnings that it is a net to the soul, a weapon for devils.  May the saints of Paradise make bare the beauty of this woman.  She has persuaded Carlo that she is serving the country.  You have let him lie here alone in a fruitless bed, silly girl.  He stayed for you while his comrades called him to Vercelli, where they are assembled.  The man whom he salutes as his Chief gave him word to go there.  They are bound for Rome.  Ah me!  Rome is a great name, but Lombardy is Carlo’s natal home, and Lombardy bleeds.  You were absent—­how long you were absent!  If you could know the heaviness of those days of his waiting for you.  And it was I who kept him here!  I must have omitted a