There were woodwinds in the rigging, and the creak of a piccolo in the timbers. The whole orchestra was starting up: it was becoming day. There was no curtain to be drawn this time, no cherubs, but merely a scrim through which it would be possible to perceive that comedy called Justice. The pumiced decks were swabbed down. As the first light hit them they began to steam. An aureole of sea gulls came out to meet the boats, wailed, and whirled back again. The ship’s bell rang for the chorus to come in and take its places. That excellent piece, Monti’s Aristodemo, or The Monarchy Restored, was about to be put on again, though Ferdinand was still in Palermo, pulling at his lower lip and starting hares. Emma had risen early. In a shovel bonnet alla marinara, trimmed with daisies made of cockleshells, a white princess dress à la Régence with an exceptionally high bodice, and yellow slippers patterned after a man’s evening pumps, she had given some thought to her tournure, and so had no doubts, but drew about her in flattering folds an expansive cashmere shawl.
