The afternoons Mariano passed with his wife. Sometimes they went in a
gondola to the promenade of the Lido and sitting on the sandy beach,
watched the angry surface of the open Adriatic, that stretched its
tossing white caps to the horizon, like a flock of snowy sheep hurrying
in the rush of a panic.
Other afternoons they walked in the Square of Saint Mark, under the
arcades of its three rows of palaces where they could see in the
background, by the last rays of the sun, the pale gold of the basilica
gleaming, as if in its walls and domes there were crystallized all the
wealth of the ancient Republic.
Renovales, with his wife on his arm, walked calmly as if the majesty of
the place impelled him to a sort of noble bearing. The august silence
was not disturbed by the deafening hubbub of other great capitals; no
rattling of carts or footsteps of horses or hucksters' cries. The
Square, with its white marble pavement, was a huge drawing room through
which the visitors passed as if they were making a call. The musicians
of the Venice band were gathered in the center with their hats
surmounted by black waving plumes. The blasts of the Wagnerian brasses,
galloping in the mad ride of the Valkyries, made the marble columns
shake and seemed to give life to the four golden horses that reared over
space with silent whinnies on the cornice of St. Mark's.
The dark-feathered doves of Venice scattered in playful spirals,
somewhat frightened at the music, finally settled, like rain, on the
tables of the cafe.
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