Some time after her craving for it had commenced, an Austrian foot regiment, marching to the drum, passed under her windows.  The fife is a merry instrument; fife and drum colour the images of battle gaily; but the dull ringing Austrian step-drum, beating unaccompanied, strikes the mind with the real nature of battles, as the salt smell of powder strikes it, and more in horror, more as a child’s imagination realizes bloodshed, where the scene is a rolling heaven, black and red on all sides, with pitiable men moving up to the mouth of butchery, the insufferable flashes, the dark illumination of red, red of black, like a vision of the shadows Life and Death in a shadow-fight over the dear men still living.  Sensitive minds may be excited by a small stimulant to see such pictures.  This regimental drum is like a song of the flat-headed savage in man.  It has no rise or fall, but leads to the bloody business with an unvarying note, and a savage’s dance in the middle of the rhythm.  Violetta listened to it until her heart quickened with alarm lest she should be going to have a fever.  She thought of Carlo Ammiani, and of the name of Nagen; she had seen him at the Lenkensteins.  Her instant supposition was that Anna had perhaps paid heavily for the secret of Carlo’s movements an purpose to place Major Nagen on the Brescian high-road to capture him.  Capture meant a long imprisonment, if not execution.  Partly for the sake of getting peace of mind—­for she was shocked by her temporary inability to command repose—­but with some hope of convincing Carlo that she strove to be of use to him, she sent for the spy Luigi, and at a cost of two hundred and twenty Austrian florins, obtained his promise upon oath to follow Count Ammiani into Brescia, if necessary, and deliver to him a letter she had written, wherein Nagen’s name was mentioned, and Carlo was advised to avoid personal risks; the letter hinted that he might have incurred a private enmity, and he had better keep among his friends.  She knew the writing of this letter to be the foolishest thing she had ever done.  Two hundred and twenty florins—­the man originally stipulated to have three hundred—­was a large sum to pay for postage.  However, sacrifices must now and then be made for friendship, and for sleep.  When she had paid half the money, her mind was relieved, and she had the slumber which preserves beauty.  Luigi was to be paid the other half on his return.  “He may never return,” she thought, while graciously dismissing him.  The deduction by mental arithmetic of the two hundred and twenty, or the one hundred and ten florins, from the large amount Countess Anna was bound to pay her in turn, annoyed her, though she knew it was a trifle.  For this lady, Milan, Turin, and Paris sighed deeply.