It was true. Clara Passalacqua had returned from escorting Grossgemuth to his hotel, and was still in command, dividing her attention impartially between the two groups. To do this she pretended not to know what the secret party was about, as if it were a private game of the guests. But this meant she could never stop, because stopping implied a definite choice. She came and went, trying to comfort the most dispirited of the women, provided more chairs and very shrewdly ordered a second abundant round of drinks. She hobbled around with trays and bottles, earning a personal success in both camps.
“Pss, pss . . . ,” one of the sentries posted behind the shutters called out suddenly, and pointed toward the piazza.
Six or seven people rushed to look. A dog, evidently a stray, came slinking along from the direction of Via Case Rotte, with its head down. It kept close to the wall, and disappeared down Via Manzoni.
“What do you think we’ve come to look at, a dog?”
“Er . . . I thought that behind the dog . . .”
The state of the besieged was becoming grotesque. Outside, the silent, empty streets had at least a semblance of peacefulness. Inside, on the other hand, there was a vision of total defeat: dozens of rich and highly respected, influential people were resignedly putting up with a humiliating situation for a danger that had still to be demonstrated.
Though people got more and more tired as the hours went on, and their limbs stiffer, the heads of a few grew clearer. If the Morzi had really opened attack, it was odd that not so much as a courier had arrived in Piazza della Scala. And it would be bitter folly to endure so much fear for nothing. So in the flickering candlelight the barrister Cosenz went up to a group which included the chief ladies, a glass of champagne in his right hand. In the past, he had been celebrated for his conquests, and some old ladies still considered him dangerous.
“May I have your attention, dear friends,” he announced in a persuasive tone of voice, “it may be that many of us present here this evening find ourselves, to use a euphemism, in a critical condition . . .” (here he paused). “But it is equally likely, nor do we know which of the two hypotheses will prove correct, that tomorrow evening the whole of Milan will shake with laughter at the thought of us. One moment. Don’t interrupt me, please. . . . Let us evaluate the facts calmly. What makes us think that the danger is so imminent? Let us enumerate the suspicious symptoms. First: the fact that by the third act the Morzi, the Prefect, the Chief of Police and representatives of the armed forced had all disappeared. I hope you will pardon the blasphemy, but what is there to prevent their having been bored by the music? Secondly: the rumors from various quarters that a revolt was about to break out. Thirdly, and this is the most alarming: the news which was reportedly brought, I repeat reportedly, by my much-respected colleague Frigerio: but he left immediately, and must in fact have put in a very brief appearance if hardly any of us saw him. It is not important: let us concede the point. Frigerio said that the Morzi had begun occupying the city, that the Prefecture had been surrounded, etc. . . . I put the question to you: Who can have given Frigerio this information at one o’clock at night? Is it likely he would have been told anything so confidential at such a late hour? And by whom? And for what motive? In the meantime, nothing of a suspicious nature has been observed in this locality, and it is now past three. There have been no noises of any kind. There is at least an element of doubt about the whole business.”
“And why has nobody managed to get information through the telephone?”
“True,” said Cosenz, swallowing another mouthful of champagne. “Fourth factor of concern is, as it were, the deafness of the telephone. Those who have tried to contact the Prefecture or the Police say they haven’t succeeded, or at any rate that they have been unable to get information. Yet what would you reply if you were an official, and an unknown or inadequately identified voice asked you for information about municipal matters at one o’clock at night? And this, let us note, during a phase of extreme political delicacy? It is also a fact that the papers have been reticent . . . those with friends on editorial staffs have been soliciting their opinion. One, Bertini by name, of the Corriere, answered me in these words: ‘So far we don’t know anything for sure.’ ‘And what does that mean?’ I asked. He answered: ‘It means we don’t know what’s going on.’ I insisted: ‘But are you worried about the situation?’ He answered: ‘I wouldn’t say so, at least so far.’”
He took a breath. They all heard him with an intense longing to be able to believe in his optimism. A confused mixture of human sweat and perfume was concentrated in the cigarette smoke. The sound of excited voices reached the door of the Museum.
“Summing up our telephonic information,” said Cosenz, “or rather the lack of it, I think there is no excessive cause for alarm. Probably the newspapers themselves know very little. This means that the dreaded revolution, if it exists, is still not clearly defined. Do you think that the Morzi would allow the Corriere della Sera to be printed if they were in control of the city?”
Two or three people laughed, amid general silence.
“That is not all. The fifth cause for alarm could be the secession of those over there,” and he pointed to the Museum. “Is it likely they would
