“Why, monsieur,” the Duchess went on, “what can you find in a book that is better than what we have in our hearts? Italy is mad.” “I cannot see that a people is mad because it wishes to be its own master,” said the physician. “Good Heavens!” exclaimed the Duchess, eagerly, “does not that mean paying with a great deal of bloodshed for the right of quarreling, as you do, over crazy ideas?” “Then you approve of despotism?” said the physician. “Why should I not approve of a system of government which, by depriving us of books and odious politics, leaves men entirely to us?” “I had thought that the Italians were more patriotic,” said the Frenchman. Massimilla laughed so slyly that her interlocutor could not distinguish mockery from serious meaning, nor her real opinion from ironical criticism. “Then you are not a liberal?” said he. “Heaven preserve me!” said she. “I can imagine nothing in worse taste than such opinions in a woman. Could you love a woman whose heart was occupied by all mankind?” “Those who love are naturally aristocrats,” the Austrian General observed, with a smile. “As I came into the theatre,” the Frenchman observed, “you were the first person I saw; and I remarked to his Excellency that if there was a woman who could personify a nation it was you. But I grieve to discover that, though you represent its divine beauty, you have not the constitutional spirit.” “Are you not bound,” said the Duchess, pointing to the ballet now being danced, “to find all our dancers detestable and our singers atrocious? Paris and London rob us of all our leading stars. Paris passes judgment on them, and London pays them. Genovese and la Tinti will not be left to us for six months--” At this juncture, the Austrian left the box. Vendramin, the Prince, and the other two Italians exchanged a look and a smile, glancing at the French physician. He, for a moment, felt doubtful of himself,--a rare thing in a Frenchman,--fancying he had said or done something incongruous; but the riddle was immediately solved. “Do you thing it would be judicious,” said Emilio, “if we spoke our mind in the presence of our masters?” “You are in a land of slaves,” said the Duchess, in a tone and with a droop of the head which gave her at once the look for which the physician had sought in vain. “Vendramin,” she went on, speaking so that only the stranger could hear her, “took to smoking opium, a villainous idea suggested to him by an Englishman who, for other reasons of his, craved an easy death--not death as men see it in the form of a skeleton, but death draped with the frippery you in France call a flag--a maiden form crowned with flowers or laurels; she appears in a cloud of gunpowder borne on the flight of a cannon-ball--or else stretched on a bed between two courtesans; or again, she rises in the steam of a bowl of punch, or the dazzling vapor of a diamond--but a diamond in the form of carbon.