The orchestra had stopped playing and Baroness Radziwill overheard Federicka's last sentence.
"That's utterly ridiculous," she cried, her black eyes snapping. "Not one Indian in ten thousand can read or write. Is Díaz too old to think?"
"They can read at the point of a gun," said Serrato, the young Colima mayor, his lips twisting.
Federicka took up the challenge: "All of us can remember faithful Indians. When Lucienne's mother and father drowned in the surf, who tried to save them? The Indians who were fishing nearby. Itzla drowned. He gave his life. When my father built the railroad to Cuernavaca, he learned to like them."
"Long live Porfirio Díaz," cried Serrato dully.
"Long live Díaz," others echoed.
"Maybe I've drunk too much coffee," Roberto muttered under his breath. "What's all this?"
"I'm no Díaz man. How do you feel about Petaca and what I'm doing?" Raul asked him.
"Well," said Roberto, grinning, "Fernando, like Díaz, has served his time. I want to see what you can do."
He opened his silver cigarette case and rubbed a smudge from the initials. He felt sleepy, tired of this room and its old-fashioned furniture. A little sickish, he headed for the porch and the cool sea air. Being alone could be comforting.