“You see how one treats beggars in New York,” she said to Marianna, whose colour had all gone. “You would be like that if I shut the door on you. Who do you think would feed you if I turned you out?”
Marianna looked upon the strange faces that passed by, and something she saw there—or the lack of something—in the eyes of her fellow-beings struck fresh terror to her soul, and the tears came. “Oh, where is Armando?” she asked herself, sobbing. Why had he left the ship without her? It was all his fault. He should have taken her with him. He did not love her, and would not care if she did marry Signor Di Bello. If they had only stayed in Italy—in the mountains, where she had been so happy! She would have remained if Armando had. She knew she would, in spite of Carolina. But he, too, was a fool. All was lost now—their love, their happiness. But for the bust he would have stayed at home, perhaps—yes, it was the bust! Maledictions upon it and the First Lady of the Land!
The cab dashed under the roar of an Elevated train. Carolina lay back in the seat and regarded her charge complacently, with drooping eyelids. As they turned into Mulberry her face was a symbol of smug content. She felt certain now of a manageable wife for Casa Di Bello. But the imperious tug she gave the brass bell handle of Casa Di Bello sounded the knell of her vivid hopes. The door opened, and she looked into the awe-struck face of Angelica. With difficulty the cook found speech for the terrible news: Signor Di Bello gone to church to be married—and to Juno the Superb! Yes, yes; the Neapolitan pig! At that very moment they must be standing at the altar of San Patrizio! Oh, the grand feast that awaited them! See, there was the table all laid! Ah, such wine, such fruit! All there under the fine white cloth! Soon they would be back from the church, and the house would be full of guests eating and drinking, for he had invited the first families of the Torinesi, Milanesi, and Genovesi, besides many swine from the south. And all for a Neapolitan pig! Santissima Vergine!
Marianna felt that she would like to throw herself at this pig’s feet and kiss them in the joy of her deliverance, while Carolina gave play to her rage in a storm of anathema against her brother and the singer. In the thick of her onset—all rituals of conduct torn to shreds—the door bell jingled tragically. With bated breath, Angelica turned the knob, and Carolina struck a pose of disdain in the hallway. As the door opened a chorus of greetings and happy auguries came from a group of men and women at the threshold, all in their sprucest Sunday array. They were the first lot of invited guests, and would have swarmed in, but Carolina ordered them back.
“We have come to the wedding feast,” they protested. “Signor Di Bello has bidden us.”
“Begone, you ragabash and bobtail!” said Carolina, and she slammed the door in their faces.
CHAPTER XVIII
AT THE ALTAR OF SAN PATRIZIO
Never did wedding barouche so gorgeous roll over the asphalt of Mulberry as the one in which Signor Di Bello and his bride rode to church; and never had the people beheld such an illustrious couple in nuptial parade. With an overdone mimicry of the princesses and duchesses she had watched so often driving in the Chiaja of Naples, Juno sat erect and grand of mien, deigning scarcely a glance to right or left. Now and then she did smile with a feigned grace, or bow with mock condescension in response to some wild salvo of “bravoes” shot as they passed by a caffè from the throats of Signor Di Bello’s boon comrades. Nor did these salutes meet with a less dignified return from the bridegroom. His old friends wondered, and avowed that the bubbling merchant was not himself to-day. And, in truth, for the first time in his life the signore had put on an air of loftiness and gravity. No one could say that the radiant creature in purple by his side surpassed him in grandeur. Perhaps it was the example of Juno, perhaps the witchery of his looking-glass. An hour before, arrayed in evening clothes spick and span from the tailor, who had worked overtime, Signor Di Bello had viewed his mirrored self with much approval and delight. It was his first dress suit, and the round brow, the bushy hair, and the King Humbert mustache showed above the broad field of shirt front in bolder relief and a light that was new to their owner. His facial likeness to the monarch of Italy had ever been a spring of secret pride, but not until to-day, when he beheld himself in royal raiment, had the similitude played him any mental pranks. Fondly he gazed in the mirror’s verge, and said to himself: “Ah! that is the head of the king, and the head is on my shoulders.” And it was because the king had got into that head so badly that Signor Di Bello rode to his wedding with the stateliness of a royal chief.
At length the plumed steeds turned into the Sicilian quarter, and the bridal pair could see the Gothic façade of San Patrizio a block away. At this stage the march lost its triumphal flavour. They had entered the enemy’s country. Here the dusky women at windows breathed no auguries of good fortune, and the white-shirted men on the sidewalk, idling in their Sunday best, had no “bravo” for the distinguished bridegroom. For about half the distance the Genovese and his Neapolitan were permitted to pass in respect if not in love. Doubtless this silent show of bad blood would have continued unbroken till the church portals were reached, but for the act of a certain earringed fellow who stood on a low balcony. In the long ago his eyes had seen Humbert, and now he was struck so hard with the resemblance borne him by the man in the carriage that, in a voice ringing sharp to a hundred ears, he shouted:
“Long live the king!” (“Evviva il re!”)