“Done? The thing is simple. The Government should take measures to silence these mischief-makers, these plotters against industrial peace. We build up the wealth of the nation, they would tear it down. They delude themselves with the notion that they are the only patriots. How delicious! They are Italy’s deadliest foes.”
“I tremble to think of the consequences,” said Donna Beatrice. “Why, our heads would not be safe. See how those blacksmiths and clod-hoppers lay about them with their pikes and terrible swords! I suppose the heads they are cracking are the heads that wouldn’t take in their new ideas! Ugh!”
“Still, the world is somewhat hard for many,” Don Riccardo observed, for the sake of a word in support of Hera, who had moved away, resolved not to join issue with her husband.
“I have always found the world what I made it,” Tarsis returned, and they passed on toward the door of the library. The contractor had stocked the massive oak shelves with volumes old and new, and supplied the room with modern leather furniture.
“Oh, the Napoleonic relic!” exclaimed Donna Beatrice at sight of a large oblong table of Florentine mosaic. Tarsis was all attention.
“Napoleonic relic?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
“Ah, you must know,” she told him, “that when the conqueror came to Milan he made the palace his headquarters. This table was once in Villa Barbiondi, and my great-grandfather gave it to Napoleon.”
Tarsis drew a chair to the table, and, with a nod of apology to the others, seated himself; resting his arms on the polished surface, he moved his right hand in simulation of the act of writing.
“It is of convenient height,” he said, “and I shall use it. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to find this relic. Napoleon Bonaparte is the man above all the world’s heroes whom I admire.”
“Truly a marvellous man, a matchless genius,” attested Donna Beatrice, gravely contemplative.