STUNDBERGER accompanied me to my vehicle, into which I got with the
brigadier of _gens d’armes_, to whose care I was entrusted. It was
snowing, and the cold was excessive.
“Wrap yourself well up in your cloak,” said Stundberger; “cover your head
better, and contrive to reach home as little unwell as you can; remember,
that a very little thing will give you cold just now. I wish it had been
in my power to go on and attend you as far as Turin.” He said this in a
tone of voice so truly cordial and affectionate that I could not doubt
its sincerity.
“From this time you will have no German near you,” he added; “you will no
longer hear our language spoken, and little, I dare say, will you care
for that; the Italians find it very harsh. Besides, you have suffered so
greatly among us, that most probably you will not like to remember us;
yet, though you will so soon forget my very name, I shall not cease, sir,
to offer up prayers for your safety.”
“I shall do the same for you,” I replied; as I shook his hand for the
last time.
“Guten morgen! guten morgen! gute raise! leben sie wohl!”—farewell; a
pleasant journey! good morning he continued to repeat; and the sounds
were to me as sweat as if they had been pronounced in my native tongue.
I am passionately attached to my country, but I do not dislike any other
nation. Civilisation, wealth, power, glory, are differently apportioned
among different people; but in all there are minds obedient to the great
vocation of man,—to love, to pity, and to assist each other.
The brigadier who attended me, informed me that he was one of those who
arrested Confalonieri. He told me how the unhappy man had tried to make
his escape; how he had been baffled, and how he had been torn from the
arms of his distracted wife, while they both at the same time submitted
to the calamity with dignity and resignation.
The horrible narrative increased my fear; a hand of iron seemed to be
weighing upon my heart. The good man, in his desire of showing his
sociality, and entertaining me with his remarks, was not aware of the
horror he excited in me when I cast my eye on those hands which had
seized the person of my unfortunate friend.
He ordered luncheon at Buffalora, but I was unable to taste anything.
Many years back, when I was spending my time at Arluno, with the sons of
Count Porro, I was accustomed to walk thither (to Buffalora), along the
banks of the Ticino. I was rejoiced to see the noble bridge, the
materials of which I had beheld scattered along the Lombard shore, now
finished, notwithstanding the general opinion that the design would be
abandoned. I rejoiced to traverse the river and set my foot once more on
Piedmontese ground. With all my attachment to other nations, how much I
prefer Italy! yet Heaven knows that however much more delightful to me is
the sound of the _Italian name_, still sweeter must be that of Piedmont,
the land of my fathers.