“Yes, we have been to the Red Cross,” the girl flashed.
“Rome welcomes the poet as though he were royalty,” I remarked, standing on tiptoe to sweep with a glance the immense crowd.
“He will not go to the front—he will just talk!”
“Enrico is here somewhere,” Bianca explained. “They told us so at the barracks. We have looked all about and mamma has asked so many officers. We haven’t seen him since that first night. He has been on duty all day in the streets, doing pichett ’armato, ... I wish Giolitti would go back home. If he doesn’t go soon, he’ll find out!”
Her white teeth came together grimly, and she made a significant little gesture with her hand.
“Where’s mamma?”
The signora had caught sight of another promising uniform and was talking with the kindly officer who wore it.
“His company is inside the station,” she explained when she rejoined us, “and we can never get in there!”
She would have left if Bianca had not restrained her. The girl wanted to see the poet. Presently the night began to fall, the still odorous May night of Rome. The big arc-lamps shone down upon the crowded faces. Suddenly there was a forward swaying, shouts and cheers from the station. A little man’s figure was being carried above the eager crowd. Then a motor bellowed for free passage through the human mass. A wave of song burst from thousands of throats, Mameli’s “L’Inno.” A little gray face passed swiftly. The poet had come and gone.
“Come!” Bianca exclaimed, taking my hand firmly and pulling the signora on the other side. And she hurried us on with the streaming crowd through lighted streets toward the Pincian hill, in the wake of the poet’s car. The crowd had melted from about the station and was pouring into the Via Veneto. About the little fountain of the Tritone it had massed again, but persistent Bianca squirmed through the yielding figures, dragging us with her until we were wedged tight in the mass nearly opposite the Queen Mother’s palace.