if they wished to see the condemned man alive. Undaunted by the news,
the brave wife sought an interview with the Empress, in whom she found
a warm advocate, but who was obliged to own, after several attempts to
obtain a reprieve, that she despaired of success. Teresa Confalonieri
hurried back to Milan through the bitter winter weather, in doubt
whether she should arrive before the execution had taken place. But
the unceasing efforts of the Empress won the day. The respite was
granted on the 13th of January; life-imprisonment was substituted for
death. The countess sent her husband the pillow which she had bathed
with her tears during her terrible journey; needless to say that it
was not given to him. She died broken-hearted with waiting before he
was set at liberty in the year 1836.

When Count Confalonieri reached Vienna on his way to Spielberg, he was
surprised to find himself installed in a luxurious apartment, with
three servants to wait upon him. Though too ill to touch solid food, a
sumptuous breakfast and dinner were daily set before him; and but for
the constant jingle of his chains, he would have thought himself in a
first-class hotel on a journey of pleasure. The object of these
attentions was clear when one evening Prince Metternich came to see
him, and stayed for three hours, endeavouring by every exquisite
flattery, by every promise and persuasion, to worm out of him the
secrets of which he alone was believed to be the depositary. The
Austrian Government had spent £60,000 on the Milan Commission, and,
practically, they were no wiser than when it began. Would Confalonieri
enlighten them? Whatever scruples he might have felt during the trial
could be now laid aside; there was no question of new arrests. It was
from pure, abstract love of knowledge that the Government, or, rather,
the Emperor, desired to get at the truth. If he preferred to open his
mind to the Emperor in person, His Majesty would grant him a secret