A woman such as Violetta d’Isorella was of the sort from which Laura shrank with all her feminine power of loathing; but she spoke of her with some effort at personal tolerance until she heard of Violetta’s stipulation for the deferring of Carlo’s marriage, and contrived to guess that Carlo was reserved and unfamiliar with his betrothed.  Then she cried out, “Fool that he is!  Is it ever possible to come to the end of the folly of men?  She has inflamed his vanity.  She met him when you were holding him waiting, and no doubt she commenced with lamentations over the country, followed by a sigh, a fixed look, a cheerful air, and the assurance to him that she knew it—­uttered as if through the keyhole of the royal cabinet—­she knew that Sardinia would break the Salasco armistice in a mouth:—­if only, if the king could be sure of support from the youth of Lombardy.”

“Do you suspect the unhappy king?” Vittoria interposed.

“Grasp your colours tight,” said Laura, nodding sarcastic approbation of such fidelity, and smiling slightly.  “There has been no mention of the king.  Countess d’Isorella is a spy and a tool of the Jesuits, taking pay from all parties—­Austria as well, I would swear.  Their object is to paralyze the march on Rome, and she has won Carlo for them.  I am told that Barto Rizzo is another of her conquests.  Thus she has a madman and a fool, and what may not be done with a madman and a fool?  However, I have set a watch on her.  She must have inflamed Carlo’s vanity.  He has it, just as they all have.  There’s trickery:  I would rather behold the boy charging at the head of a column than putting faith in this base creature.  She must have simulated well,” Laura went on talking to herself.

“What trickery?” said Vittoria.

“He was in love with the woman when he was a lad,” Laura replied, and pertinently to Vittoria’s feelings.  This threw the moist shade across her features.

Beppo in Turin and Luigi on the lake were the watch set on Countess d’Isorella; they were useless except to fortify Laura’s suspicions.  The Duchess of Graatli wrote mere gossip from Milan.  She mentioned that Anna of Lenkenstein had visited with her the tomb of her brother Count Paul at Bologna, and had returned in double mourning; and that Madame Sedley—­“the sister of our poor ruined Pierson”—­had obtained grace, for herself at least, from Anna, by casting herself at Anna’s feet,—­and that they were now friends.

Vittoria felt ashamed of Adela.

When Carlo returned, the signora attacked him boldly with all her weapons; reproached him; said, “Would my husband have treated me in such a manner?” Carlo twisted his moustache and stroked his young beard for patience.  They passed from room to balcony and terrace, and Laura brought him back into company without cessation of her fire of questions and sarcasms, saying, “No, no; we will speak of these things publicly.”  She appealed alternately to Agostino, Vittoria, and Countess Ammiani for support, and as she certainly spoke sense, Carlo was reduced to gloom and silence.  Laura then paused.  “Surely you have punished your bride enough?” she said; and more softly, “Brother of my Giacomo! you are under an evil spell.”