“Chi lo sa?” said Patsy again. “When the Italians came to Rome they meant to leave the Borgo under the temporal control of the papacy. Consequently at the first plebiscite (October 2, 1870) no urn was provided for the Borgo’s vote. You don’t suppose a fellow like that,” he pointed to the baker, “would let such a little thing keep him out of United Italy? The first returns of the day were brought in from this, the fourteenth, rione (ward), by two strapping fellows, who marched up to the Capitol carrying between them a big urn with the votes from the Borgo. I have heard that your friend the baker’s father was one of them.”
“And this morning that man’s granddaughter walked in the procession of the Sacrament!”
“For the matter of that, here comes Prince Nero’s grandson wearing the King’s uniform. Both Blacks and Whites, Dio grazie, are fast fading into Grays.”
Beppino, very stiff in his military togs, was shown up on the terrace by Nena the shabby, who always manages to open the door to fashionable visitors.
“How do you like your service, Beppino? Your uniform is very becoming,” I began.
“I don’t like it at all! Fancy being obliged to clean one’s own horse, to polish one’s own boots—it’s not to be endured!”
It has to be endured; and, moreover, Beppino is enormously improved by his six months’ endurance of the obligatory military service. Those fiery brown eyes of his have grown serious.
“Is it true that you voted at the last election?” asked Patsy.
“It is true,” said Beppino.
“How did your grandfather take it?” Patsy persisted.