post-office, where perhaps he may be of use."

What particularly filled the old soldier with indignation and despair was
that such a man, a Sacco, should have fallen like a bandit on Rome--on
that Rome whose conquest had cost so many noble efforts. And in his turn
Sacco was conquering the city, was carrying it off from those who had won
it by such hard toil, and was simply using it to satisfy his wild passion
for power and its attendant enjoyments. Beneath his wheedling air there
was the determination to devour everything. After the victory, while the
spoil lay there, still warm, the wolves had come. It was the North that
had made Italy, whereas the South, eager for the quarry, simply rushed
upon the country, preyed upon it. And beneath the anger of the old
stricken hero of Italian unity there was indeed all the growing
antagonism of the North towards the South--the North industrious,
economical, shrewd in politics, enlightened, full of all the great modern
ideas, and the South ignorant and idle, bent on enjoying life
immediately, amidst childish disorder in action, and an empty show of
fine sonorous words.

Stefana had begun to smile in a placid way while glancing at Pierre, who
had approached the window. "Oh, you say that, uncle," she responded; "but
you love us well all the same, and more than once you have given me
myself some good advice, for which I'm very thankful to you. For
instance, there's that affair of Attilio's--"

She was alluding to her son, the lieutenant, and his love affair with
Celia, the little Princess Buongiovanni, of which all the drawing-rooms,
white and black alike, were talking.

"Attilio--that's another matter!" exclaimed Orlando. "He and you are both