But Tarsis did not hear. His attention was held by a dialogue at his shoulders between a man who leaned against the lintel and one who stood within the room.
“There are two sorts of women you must not know,” said the nearer man. “They are the women who love you and the women who do not.”
“You are right. I know; I have suffered.”
“You make a mistake to suffer,” the first speaker continued. “If a woman insults you, bow to her. If she strikes you, protect yourself. If she deceives you, say nothing for fear of compromising her. Kill yourself, if you please, but suffer—never!”
“To this point I agree with you,” said his companion: “Some life should pay—yours, hers or his.”
The other shrugged his shoulders. “That, of course, is a matter of taste.”
Tarsis had glanced quickly at the men and turned his back again. Now he stood staring into the rain of the fountain in the court below, his hard face set like stone, preoccupied darkly with what he had heard. So deep was his absorption that he failed to hear Donna Beatrice exclaim that the King was approaching.
“Antonio!” she repeated, rousing him with a touch on his sleeve. “Come, let us find Hera and go down to receive his Majesty.”
He looked out over the throngs far up the Corso, and saw Sandro speeding toward them. In the quick sweep of his eye he noted too, that the soldiers at the Venetian Gate were forming in marching order, leaving the people free to break their lines along the street sides. And as he followed Donna Beatrice from the window he was aware of a changed note in the murmur of the crowds—a note that was not of glad acclaim. In the group near the orchestra were the Cardinal and Hera with an arm about her chum of the Brianza, the little Marchioness of Tramonta, and near them Don Riccardo and Mario Forza. While they listened to the music Donna Beatrice and Tarsis were searching for Hera. Before they came upon her the motor car was panting in the court and Sandro had started up the staircase with his tidings.