The people in the street called to one another and made jokes after the manner of a crowd that has waited long enough to have a sense of acquaintance. Soldiers held back the multitude on either side of the Corso, but the space before the palace gates was kept clear by the Civil Guards. At the latter now and then was hurled a coarse jibe, to the delight of many; for the stovepipe hat of their policemen, the black gloves, and the club that is like a walking stick never cease to be comic in the eyes of the Milanese.
La Ferita, the woman of the scarred face, who shook her fist at Tarsis on his wedding day, was in the crowd before the palace. She cried out several times against Tarsis. Once a Civil Guard pushed her back, with a warning that he would take her in charge if she did not hold her tongue.
“Arrest the man in there!” she shouted, pointing toward Palazzo Barbiondi. “He takes the life-blood of children! He works them to death in the factories; pays them fifteen soldi a day! The children die, but he lives on in his grand house! Who pays for it?” she shrieked, facing the crowd and waving her upraised arms. “We do, comrades; we——”
A tirade against his Majesty’s host, within hearing almost of the distinguished man himself, was not to be permitted, and, weary of admonishing her, the Civil Guard lugged La Ferita off to the Questura.
Tarsis and Donna Beatrice went to a window and peered up the Corso, but there was no sign of the royal equipage, no flutter in the crowd to denote its coming. Although the daylight was failing, they could still see the city gate and Sandro in the motor car, stationed there, charged to bear word as soon as the King and Queen were sighted, that the host and hostess might have time to go down to the portico to receive them. To this part of the function Tarsis had looked forward eagerly. He had even rehearsed the scene, going through the act of bowing low to the Queen and offering her his arm, while in imagination his wife, on the King’s arm, led the way up the staircase.
“I was not prepared to see Mario Forza here,” Donna Beatrice said to Tarsis, compressing her lips and patting one hand with her closed fan.
“It is by the King’s wish,” he told her.
“Strange!”
“Oh, no,” he explained. “A political consideration. I hope no accident has prevented his Majesty from coming.”
“It is only that athletic exhibition, I am positive,” she said. “As he is to distribute the prizes I suppose he cannot leave graciously until the bore is at an end. I was at one once. The waits between the events were the chief feature. If there is anything that would delight to keep a king waiting it is an athletic exhibition.”