Everyone else, though, seemed to be in their best clothes. The Baroness Gambetti was dressed like a peacock in a gaudy blue and orange two-piece and as much jewelry as she could get around her neck. She was in excellent spirits but her husband, who was trying to eat his breakfast, looked like a ghost, only yellower.
“He promised me it will all be very civilized,” he kept muttering, “a peaceful takeover,” while his wife told him to shut up and finish his egg.
In the square, the brass-band players rubbed up their instruments, workmen sprinkled sawdust along the route of the royal procession, policemen put up ropes. Wooden benches were brought and set out for those who wanted to watch the dancing, and colored lights were strung between the trees — for the evening would end with a great open-air party for anyone who cared to come.
The Berganians had always been good at celebrations.
Now that the festival was really upon them everyone felt better. Even if they made fools of themselves it would soon be over. Tally, helping Kit fix the bells onto his ankles, had quite forgotten her black mood of the day before, and now that they were all dressed they didn’t look too bad. In fact, suddenly they looked unexpectedly nice, and this was because of Magda.
Magda had stopped having Important Thoughts about Schopenhauer long enough to notice that the girls’ wreaths had not really recovered from their bashing in the luggage van of the train and had suggested they go to the market early in the morning and buy some fresh flowers to fill up the gaps.
“But have we enough money?” Julia had wanted to know.
And again Magda had surprised everyone, by groping about among her notes and card indexes and extracting her purse.
So Tally and Julia had got up very early and come back with roses and lilies of the valley and cornflowers still moist with dew, and everyone had set to healing the poor wreaths.
“What about our hats?” Kit wanted to know. “Don’t the boys get any flowers?”
So Julia pinned a hyacinth to the brim of his hat and, though it would probably fall over his nose once he began to dance, he was pleased.
“We may look a bit odd, but no one can say we’re not fresh and floral,” said Tally.
And for the first time they wondered whether after all it might turn out all right, this Flurry Dance which had given them all so much trouble.
The broken staves had been mended, Augusta’s bananas had been stowed in her violin case, and Matteo, looking more like a bandit than ever in a black corduroy shirt and dark trousers, had assembled his sackbut, so there was hope that he would come in with his oom-pa-pa at important moments.
It was still difficult not to be upset by the empty German tent, but the other teams, all dressed now in their dancing clothes, looked really festive. The Italians with their sashes and bright kerchiefs, the French girls with their white headdresses… the Yugoslavs in goatskin jackets with feathers in their caps… Lots would be drawn after the ceremony to decide the order in which the teams would dance.
They made their way over the bridge, joined by crowds of people in their best clothes and children waving flags. In the square they were given their places. The Deldertonians were in the front, against the ropes that marked off the route the king would take as he rode toward the platform on which the distinguished guests would sit. The visitors would come on through the double doors of the town hall, but the king and the prince would mount by special wooden steps from the square.
The crowd was in a party mood, wanting to forget the crises and threats that beset their country.
Now the great doors opened and the mayor, in his gold chain, took his seat on the platform, followed by the lord chief justice and the prime minister. When Gambetti appeared with his wife there was some booing in the crowd, but it was quickly hushed — today was not a day for politics.
Stiefelbreich marched on in his jackboots. For a moment his face turned toward the attic of the Blue Ox and then away again. More and more people filed on to the platform. The clock in the tower on the north side of the square struck eleven, and eleven apostles came out, marched woodenly out of their niches and went back again.
“We’ve got a really good view,” said Tally.
“Matteo hasn’t,” Julia pointed out.
This was true. Matteo was standing behind an exceptionally tall and heavily built policeman in a brass helmet, one of a whole contingent who was lining the route.
“There’s room here,” called Tally, but Matteo only raised a hand and stayed where he was.
There was the sound of rousing music, a rustle of excitement from the crowd — and the procession which had set off from the palace entered the square.
“We’ll give them something to remember,” the king had told his son, so he rode the gray Thoroughbred that was kept for state occasions and wore his most dazzling uniform, that of the Berganian Rifles in scarlet and white and gold. The prince, riding his favorite chestnut, was hardly less grand. Ignoring the discomfort of the scratchy braid around his throat and the ludicrously tight trousers, he had chosen the uniform of the Mountain Cuirassiers because here was something worth dressing up for: not a dead saint or a railway station but a festival made by children who had come together from everywhere — and a girl who had brought her friends to honor the king.
Behind them rode Uncle Fritz, the minister of culture, then came the household cavalry, the men-at-arms, the band of the fusiliers…
There were shouts of “Long live the King!… Long live Johannes!” People climbed up lampposts to see better. There had never been such enthusiasm for this ruler, who had become a hero to his people.
The procession was drawing level with the place where the children from Delderton were standing. Everything was going as expected — the marching men, the trotting horses, the band…
Then the burly policeman who was standing in front of Matteo shifted to one side — and everything changed.
The king reined in his horse and came to a stop — and as the king stopped so did those who were behind him. The sound of the band spluttered and died away, and in the silence that followed, the king’s words rang loud and clear.
“Seize that man!” he cried. “Hold him! Don’t let him go!”
And he pointed directly at Matteo, standing very straight among the children he had brought.
The policeman who had been standing in front of Matteo grabbed his arm, and a second officer came forward to help restrain him. Matteo did not struggle. All the time he stood erect and looked steadily at the king.
“Bring him here,” ordered the king.
While the crowd murmured and wondered and craned their necks to see the criminal, Johannes dismounted and handed the reins to his son.
Then he stepped forward and lifted the rope that separated him from the crowd and let it fall, and at the same time Matteo freed himself and moved toward the king.
There was a moment of total silence. Then the king’s arms came around Matteo and the two men embraced. The throng of people might not have existed; they saw only each other.
“My God, Matteo,” said the king. “It’s been so long.”
No one could hear the words the men now spoke.
“Later,” said the king, freeing himself reluctantly. “As soon as this is over.”