The Viceroys by Federico De Roberto Page A

gathered in both courtyards, a swarm of domestics in black liveries coming and going, the major-domo, hatless, panting around giving orders, the state carriage with four horses to be used as funeral car. When finally the heavy doors turned on their hinges, every head turned, every person rose on tiptoe. Ahead came a row of Capuchin friars bearing a cross, then the funeralcar, with the coffin covered in red velvet, flanked by all the servants bearing torches; then the inmates of the Uzeda old folks’ home, all bare-headed; then the girls of the Orphanage with blue veils hanging to the ground; then the family carriages; two more four-horsed carriages, five two-horsed carriages, then on foot another group of forty men or so, most of them bearded, with black velvet jerkins, and also bearing wax candles.
    ‘Who are they?… where’ve they sprung from?…’
    They were the Oleastro sulphur workers, called on purpose from Caltanissetta to accompany their mistress, and this last accessory really did astound all. Never had such a thing been seen before!… But the carriages advancing from all sides to get into line were pressing back the crowd, four-horsed ones coming to take first places, two-horsed ones backing amid a pawing, and a crack of whips, the curious, at risk of being crushed under the animals’ feet, recognised their owners by the coats-of-arms on doors and also by the coachmen.
    ‘The Duke Radalì … the Prince of Roccasciano … the Baron Grazzeri … the Cùrcuma … the Constante … every one is here …’
    Suddenly all turned at distant shouting.
    ‘What is it?… what’s up?… The Trigona carriage!… The coachman won’t go at the end, the others don’t give way … He’s right … It’s an abuse …’
    The Marchese Trigona’s coachman, in fact, though driving a rickety equipage drawn by two old nags, had refused to go at the end of the queue where there were finer carriages belonging to people who were not noble. Baldassarre, all asweat from his efforts at ordering the procession and getting precedence respected, advanced to back up the coachman, scarcely managing to cleave a way through the crowd, cuffing urchins getting in his way and begging, ‘Make way … make way …’ while a good half of the procession had already started.
    From every church in the city rang a death-knell, calling people from all sides as the procession passed; the great bell of the Cathedral brought out particularly big crowds. It rang death-knells only for the noble and the learned, and its grave and solemn
nton, nton
, cost four
onze
* each, so that people onhearing the great bronze boom would say ‘Some big-wig has died!…’
    Quite a number of carriages, after the Trigona’s, were still waiting to get started when the head of the procession had already stopped at the Capuchins.
    It was impossible to bring the coffin into the church by the main steps. Not that it weighed much, for in fact it was empty, but the press on the stairs was growing, no one could go back or forward, and only a cannon-ball could have made room. They would have to take a different route, open a way among the throngs in the alleys of Santo Carcere and San Domenico and take the coffin through the monastery and sacristy. Nearly an hour went by before it was finally put on the catafalque.
    The musicians had already taken their places in the gallery and unwrapped their instruments; friars with long poles were lighting the candles on the High Altar. The curious crammed in the church went on talking about the dead woman, asking each other one insistent question again and again: ‘Who’ll be heir?…’ Nobles and plebs, rich and poor, all wanted to know what would be in the Will, as if the dead woman could have left something to every one of her fellow-citizens. At the palace they were awaiting the arrival of the young count from Florence and of the duke from Palermo before reading the princess’s last wishes, and opinions