Bells were ringing and great majestic white clouds kept moving along the horizon; on the Janiculum the statue of Garibaldi rose up gallantly into the air, like a bird ready to take wing.
“When I look at Rome this way,” murmured Laura, “I feel a pang, a pang of grief.”
“Why?”
“Because I remember that I must die, and then I shall not come back to see Rome. She will be here still, century after century, full of sunlight, and I shall be dead.... It is horrible, horrible!”
“And your religion?”
“Yes, I know. I believe I shall see other things; but not these things that are so beautiful.”
“You are an Epicurean.”
“It is so beautiful to be alive!”
They stayed there looking at the panorama. Below, in the Piazza del Popólo, they saw a red tram slipping along, which looked, at that distance, like a toy.
A tilbury, driven by a woman, stopped near their carriage. The woman was blond with green eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and a little fur cap. At her feet lay an enormous dog with long flame-coloured hair.