While speaking, he had placed a slip of paper in Maynard’s hands. It was written in cipher.
“A telegram?” muttered the latter, seeing the hieroglyphics.
“Yes,” said Kossuth, proceeding to translate and explain them. “The revolution has broken out in Milan. It is a rash affair, and, I fear, will end in defeat—perhaps ruin. Mazzini has done it, in direct opposition to my wishes and judgment Mazzini is too sanguine. So are Turr and the others. They count on the Hungarian regiments stationed there, with the influence of my name among them. Giuseppe has taken a liberty with it, by using an old proclamation of mine, addressed to those regiments, while I was still prisoner at Kutayah. He has put it forth at Milan, only altering the date. I wouldn’t so much blame him for that, if I didn’t believe it to be sheer madness. With so many Austrians in the garrison at Milan—above all, those hireling Bohemian regiments—I don’t think there’s a chance of our success.”
“What do you intend doing, Governor?”
“As to that, I have no choice. The game’s begun, and I must take part in it, coûte que coûte. This telegram is from my brave Turr, and he thinks there’s a hope. Whether or no, it will be necessary for me to go to them.”
“You are going then?”
“At once—if I can get there. Therein, my dear sir, lies the difficulty. It is for that I have taken the liberty of sending for you.”
“No liberty, Governor. What can I do for you?”
“Thanks, dear captain! I shall waste no words, but say at once what I want with you. The only way for me to get to Milan is through the territory of France. I might go round by the Mediterranean; but that would take time. I should be too late. Across France then must I go, or not at all.”
“And what is to hinder you from travelling through France?”