But during Cottes’s absence, the state of the besieged had crystallized in an unexpected way. Just before he had gone off to telephone, an engineer called Clementi, owner of the hydraulic plant, had been seen talking to the Sovrintendente Hirsch, and to have drawn him aside. In the course of conversation, they had moved toward the Opera Museum, and had stayed there several minutes in darkness. Then Hirsch had come back into the foyer, murmured something to four people in succession, and these had followed him: they were the writer Clissi, the soprano Borri, a textile manufacturer called Prosdocimi and young Count Martoni. The little group had joined the engineer Clementi, who was still in darkness, and had formed a kind of secret society. Without a word of explanation, an usher had come and picked up one of the candlesticks in the foyer, and had taken it to the room in the Museum where they had gone.
This proceeding, which at first went unnoticed, had aroused curiosity and even alarm: in that state of mind, little was needed to provoke suspicion. Some had gone off to look at them as if by chance, and not all had returned to the foyer. According to the face which showed itself at the door, Hirsch and Clementi either broke off their conversation or issued an invitation in a way that allowed of no refusal. In a short while the group of secessionists had grown to thirty.
It was not difficult to understand what was going on, knowing the people concerned. Clementi, Hirsch and the rest were trying to form a separate faction, already predisposed in favor of the Morzi, and clearly quite independent of all the depraved rich class out there in the foyer. It was common knowledge that on previous occasions, some of them had shown themselves, softhearted or indulgent toward the ruling sect, seemingly motivated more by fear than by sincere conviction. Nobody was surprised that Clementi, for all his despotic, masterful ways, had a degenerate son in a high post of command in the Morzi ranks. A little earlier his father had been seen entering the telephone booth, and people waiting outside had to cool their heels for a quarter of an hour or more; presumably, realizing the danger, he had telephoned his son for help. His son had not wanted to expose himself personally, and so had advised him to act at once on his own account by forming a clique in favor of the Morzi which would virtually be a Scala faction. On arrival the Morzi would afford tacit recognition to the group and, more important, leave it unharmed. After all, as someone commented, blood was thicker than water.
But it was the presence of certain others in the group which was really astonishing. They were typical of the class most detested by the Morzi; they, or people like them, were responsible for many of the troubles which gave the Morzi easy pretexts for propaganda or attack. Yet here they were suddenly banding together on the side of the enemy, disclaiming their entire past with the exception of what they had said a few moments before. It was obvious that regardless of cost they had long been intriguing in the enemy camp, so as to ensure an escape route at the right moment; but clandestinely, through a third person, so as not to lose face in the elegant world which they frequented. In the hour of danger, they had hastened to reveal themselves without bothering to keep up appearances: a fig for noble connections and social position, now it was a question of survival.
Although the maneuver began quietly, it was soon seen that an open stand was preferable because it would define the respective positions of the two groups. The electric lights had been switched on again in the Museum, and the window opened wide so that it was plainly visible from outside. When the Morzi arrived in the piazza, they would realize straightaway that they had friends on whom they could rely.
When Maestro Cottes came back into the foyer, he could see that a change had taken place, from the white reflection of the Museum light in the mirrors and the echo of the talk going on there. But he did not understand the reason. Why had the lights been put on in the Museum and not in the foyer? What was happening?
“And what are those doing over there?” he finally asked out loud.
“What are they doing?” exclaimed Liselore Bini in her pleasant voice, from her sitting position on the floor, as she leaned her back against her husband’s side. “Blessed are the innocent, dear maestro! . . . They have founded the Scala faction, those little Machiavellis. They haven’t wasted any time. Hurry up, maestro, the subscription list is still open. They’re incredible, aren’t they . . . they’ve told us they’ll do everything possible to save us . . . now they’re busy dividing the spoils, and making laws, they’ve given us permission to put the lights on again . . . have a good look at them, maestro, it’s worth it . . . they’re really incredible . . . great fat horrible pigs!” She raised her voice: “. . . I swear if nothing happens . . .”
“There, Liselore, don’t upset yourself,” said her husband. He was smiling, with closed eyes, and getting as much of a kick out of the situation as if it were a new kind of sporting attraction.
“And Donna Clara?” asked Cottes, feeling confused.
“Oh, the little cripple is never at a loss! . . . She’s thought of the best way out, even though it’s the most tiring. . . . Donna Clara is on the move.
