of her husband than by consideration for her children. She received disaffected persons: she subscribed her money ostentatiously for notoriously patriotic purposes; and she who, in her father’s Como villa, had been a shy speechless girl, nothing more than beautiful, had become celebrated for her public letters, and the ardour of declamation against the foreigner which characterized her style. In the face of such facts, the estates continued to be withheld from her governance. Austria could do that: she could wreak her spite against the woman, but she respected her own law even in a conquered land: the estates were not confiscated, and not absolutely sequestrated; and, indeed, money coming from them had been sent to her for the education of her children. It lay in unopened official envelopes, piled one upon another, quarterly remittances, horrible as blood of slaughter in her sight. Count Serabiglione made a point of counting the packets always within the first five minutes of a visit to his daughter. He said nothing, but was careful to see to the proper working of the lock of the cupboard where the precious deposits were kept, and sometimes in forgetfulness he carried off the key. When his daughter reclaimed it, she observed, ‘Pray believe me quite as anxious as yourself to preserve these documents.’ And the count answered, ‘They represent the estates, and are of legal value, though the amount is small. They represent your protest, and the admission of your claim. They are priceless.’
In some degree, also, they compensated him for the expense he was put to in providing for his daughter’s subsistence and that of her children. For there, at all events, visible before his eyes, was the value of the money, if not the money expended. He remonstrated with Laura for leaving it more than necessarily exposed. She replied,
‘My people know what that money means!’ implying, of course, that no one in her house would consequently touch it. Yet it was reserved for the count to find it gone.
The discovery was made by the astounded nobleman on the day preceding Vittoria’s appearance at La Scala. His daughter being absent, he had visited the cupboard merely to satisfy an habitual curiosity. The cupboard was open, and had evidently been ransacked. He rang up the domestics, and would have charged them all with having done violence to the key, but that on reflection he considered this to be a way of binding faggots together, and he resolved to take them one by one, like the threading Jesuit that he was, and so get a Judas. Laura’s return saved him from much exercise of his peculiar skill. She, with a cool ‘Ebbene!’ asked him how long he had expected the money to remain there. Upon which, enraged, he accused her of devoting the money to the accursed patriotic cause. And here they came to a curious open division.
‘Be content, my father,’ she said; ‘the money is my husband’s, and is expended on his behalf.’
‘You waste it among the people who were the cause of his ruin!’ her father retorted.
‘You presume me to have returned it to the Government, possibly?’
‘I charge you with tossing it to your so-called patriots.’
‘Sir, if I have done that, I have done well.’
‘Hear her!’ cried the count to the attentive ceiling; and addressing her with an ironical ‘madame,’ he begged permission to inquire of her whether haply she might be the person in the pay of Revolutionists who was about to appear at La Scala, under the name of the Signorina Vittoria. ‘For you are getting dramatic in your pose, my Laura,’ he added, familiarizing the colder tone of his irony. ‘You are beginning to stand easily in attitudes of defiance to your own father.’
‘That I may practise how to provoke a paternal Government, you mean,’ she rejoined, and was quite a match for him in dialectics.
The count chanced to allude further to the Signorina Vittoria.
‘Do you know much of that lady?’ she asked.
‘As much as is known,’ said he.
They looked at one another; the count thinking, ‘I gave to this girl an excess of brains, in my folly!’
Compelled to drop his eyes, and vexed by the tacit defeat, he pursued, ‘You expect great things from her?’
‘Great,’ said his daughter.
‘Well, well,’ he murmured acquiescingly, while sounding within himself for the part to play. ‘Well-yes! she may do what you expect.’
‘There is not the slightest doubt of her capacity,’ said his daughter, in a tone of such perfect conviction that the count was immediately and irresistibly tempted to play the part of sagacious, kindly, tolerant but foreseeing father; and in this becoming character he exposed the risks her party ran in trusting anything of weight to a woman. Not that he decried women. Out of their sphere he did not trust them, and he simply objected to them when out of their sphere: the last four words being uttered staccato.
‘But we trust her to do what she has undertaken to do,’ said Laura.
The count brightened prodigiously from his suspicion to a certainty; and as he was still smiling at the egregious trap his clever but unskilled daughter had fallen into, he found himself listening incredulously to her plain additional sentence:—‘She has easy command of three octaves.’
By which the allusion was transformed from politics to Art. Had Laura reserved this cunning turn a little further, yielding to the natural temptation to increase the shock of the antithetical battery, she would have betrayed herself: but it came at the right moment: the count gave up his arms. He told her that this Signorina Vittoria was suspected. ‘Whom will they not suspect!’ interjected Laura. He assured her that if a conspiracy had ripened it must fail. She was to believe that he abhorred the part of a spy or informer, but he was bound, since she was reckless, to watch over his daughter; and also bound, that he might be of service to her, to earn by service to others as much power as he could reasonably hope to obtain. Laura signified that he argued excellently well. In a fit of unjustified doubt of her sincerity, he complained, with a querulous snap:
‘You have your own ideas; you have your own ideas. You think me this and that. A man must be employed.’
‘And this is to account for your occupation?’ she remarked.
‘Employed, I say!’ the count reiterated fretfully. He was unmasking to no purpose, and felt himself as on a slope, having given his adversary vantage.
‘So that there is no choice for you, do you mean?’
The count set up a staggering affirmative, but knocked it over with its natural enemy as soon as his daughter had said, ‘Not being for Italy, you must necessarily be against her:—I admit that to be the position!’
‘No!’ he cried; ‘no: there is no question of “for” or “against,” as you are aware. “Italy, and not Revolution”: that is my motto.’
‘Or, in other words, “The impossible,”’ said Laura. ‘A perfect motto!’
Again the count looked at her, with the remorseful thought: ‘I certainly gave you too much brains.’
He smiled: ‘If you could only believe it not impossible!’
‘Do you really imagine that “Italy without Revolution” does not mean “Austria”?’ she inquired.
She had discovered how much he, and therefore his party, suspected, and now she had reasons for wishing him away. Not daring to show symptoms of restlessness, she offered him the chance of recovering himself on the crutches of an explanation. He accepted the assistance, praising his wits for their sprightly divination, and went through a long-winded statement of his views for the welfare
