Every place is occupied, every box is crammed; rows of lights sparkle around the darkened house, and the heat is a thing to be remembered afterwards.
There is a gorgeous ballet being acted on the stage, and Caesar is being tempted by every variety of female art and posture, in a way which never happens except to ballet heroes, and to Saint Anthony of Padua.

The dancing girls, however, dance in vain, and the orchestra plays to deaf ears, for all voices are raised at once, and all eyes are turned from the stage.

The King has entered the royal box, and every lady in the long tiers of boxes unfurls the tricolor-flag she bears in her hands and waves it bravely.

The whole house keeps rising, shouting, cheering.

The musicians lay down their instruments, and the ballet-girls drop their postures and Caesar forgets his dignity, and one and all crowd forward on the stage and join in the general cheering; and when the king leaves, the curtain drops upon the unfinished ballet, and the whole house rush into the piazza to see Victor Emmanuel again as he drives away.
The last time that my path comes across the kingly progress is at a railway station.