'I am sure Fru Thyregod has gone from house to house and from Legation to Legation, and has had a meal at each to-day.'
Somebody suggested,—
'Let us open the shutters and watch the procession from the balconies.'
'Oh, what a good idea!' cried Fru Thyregod, clapping her hands again and executing a pirouette.
Down in the platia an indefinite movement was taking place; the band stopped playing for the first time that day, and began shuffling with all its instruments to one side. Voices were then heard raised in tones of authority. A cleavage appeared in the crowd, which grew in length and width as though a wedge were being gradually driven into that reluctant confusion of humanity.
'A path for the procession,' said old Christopoulos, who, although not pleased at that frivolous flux of his family and guests on to the balconies of his house, had joined them, overcome by his natural curiosity.
The path cut in the crowd now ran obliquely across the platia from the end of the rue Royale to the steps of the cathedral opposite, and upon it the confetti with which the whole platia was no doubt strewn became visible. The police, with truncheons in their hands, were pressing the people back to widen the route still further. They wore their gala hats, three-cornered, with upright plumes of green and orange nodding as they walked.
'Look at Sterghiou,' said Alexander.
The Chief of Police rode vaingloriously down the route looking from left to right, and saluting with his free hand. The front of his uniform was crossed with broad gold hinges, and plaits of yellow braid disappeared mysteriously into various pockets. One deduced whistles; pencils; perhaps a knife. Although he did not wear feathers in his hat, one knew that only the utmost self-restraint had preserved him from them.