"Boy, hurry up. His Majesty is coming."
Ten minutes later everything was shining like a mirror. The soldiers were already at work in the adjoining room. Pinocchio had disappeared. Teschisso had gone to be shaved. Fatina was arranging the white window-curtains. The Bersaglierino was seated on his bed, his right arm resting on his knee and his chin held in the hollow of his hand.
"What's the matter? What is it, Bersaglierino?"
He didn't answer, and Fatina, after having looked at him a minute with her large, soft eyes, came up nearer and sat down beside him on the little white bed.
"Tell me what's the trouble, Bersaglierino. Why are you crying? Why don't you make yourself handsome? Didn't you hear? The King is coming to give you the medal."
"Why should I care about that? What do you think that means to me, Fatina?"
And then, since she seemed much astonished at his words, he continued, vehemently:
"Why, indeed, should I care about that?... After they have sent me away from here I shall go back to living alone like a dog ... to fighting every day for my existence. Who will get any satisfaction from the reward the King's hand has bestowed on me? No one. Perhaps the day will come when I shall have to pin the medal on my coat to keep the boys in the streets from making fun of me, the poor maimed creature who will wander about playing a street-organ."
"Oh, Bersaglierino! I never imagined you could talk like that. I don't want you to talk so."
And she spoke with so much feeling that he, fearing he had offended her, started to beg her pardon: