By the time the procession was ready to start, the Last Lady had been lifted out and set upon a flower-strewn throne made of a large packing-case that rested on the push-cart. Then a crown of tinsel, typing the sovereign power of the season over bread and wine, was lowered from the wire whereon it had hung above the middle of the street—somewhat oversized for the brow of her stony majesty, but held in place by a padding of paper roses. The brass band blared, and the pageant advanced, to the cock-a-hoop strain of Italy’s national quickstep.
Bertino had looked on silently during the metamorphosis of the bust, and when the long column of candle-bearers moved he kept abreast of the head. At length they wheeled into Mulberry Street and passed by Casa Di Bello. He had expected to see his uncle’s home in darkness and crape on the door. But the windows showed light, and, standing on the stoop to see the procession, like all the populace of Mulberry, were Aunt Carolina and—he pushed the hat from his brow at the risk of liberty and life, to make sure that his eyes did not beguile him—yes, Marianna and Armando! All in America! What did it mean? Surely this was no house of mourning. And these jeers of the paraders, who jerked their thumbs at Casa Di Bello:
“A bridegroom without a bride!”
“Ha! Signor Di Bello must hunt another wife!”
“He’d better ask her first if she has a husband!”
“The stable of the Genovese donkey!”
No, no; even these Sicilian pigs could not be making game of a dead man. Pulling the handkerchief from his mouth, he dashed across the street, breaking through the ranks and exploding a volley of hisses and wrathful epithets from marchers and bystanders.
“Aunt Carolina! Marianna! Armando!”
“Bertino!”
They all tried to hug and kiss him at once.