CHAPTER XXIV.
Arnoldo Meschini was fully conscious of what he had done when he softlyclosed the door of the study behind him and returned to the library;but although he knew and realised that he had murdered his employer, hecould not explain the act to himself. His temples throbbed painfullyand there was a bright red spot in each of his sallow cheeks. Heshuffled about from one bookcase to another, and his hands trembledviolently as he touched the big volumes. Now and then he glancedtowards one or the other of the doors expecting at every moment thatsome one would enter to tell him the news, if indeed any one at such atime should chance to remember the existence of the humble librarian.His brain was on fire and seemed to burn the sockets of his eyes. Andyet the time passed, and no one came. The suspense grew to beunbearable, and he felt that he would do anything to escape from it. Hewent to the door and laid his hand upon the latch.
For an instant the flush disappeared from his cheeks, as a great feartook possession of him. He was not able to face the sight ofMontevarchi's body lying across that table in the silent study. Hishand fell to his side and he almost ran to the other side of thelibrary; then, as though ashamed of his weakness he came back slowlyand listened at the door. It was scarcely possible that any distantecho could reach his ears, if the household had been already roused,for the passage was long and tortuous, interrupted by other doors andby a winding staircase. But in his present state he fancied that hissenses must be preternaturally sharpened and he listened eagerly. Allwas still. He went back to the books.
There was nothing to be done but to make a desperate effort to occupyhimself and to steady his nerves. If any one came now, he thought, hisface would betray him. There must be a light in his eyes, anuncertainty in his manner which would speak plainly enough to hisguilt. He tried to imagine what would take place when the body wasfound. Some one would enter the room and would see the body. He, orshe, would perhaps think that the prince was in a fit, or asleep--whocould tell? But he would not answer the voice that called him. Then theperson would come forward and touch him--Meschini forced himself tothink of it--would touch the dead hand and would feel that it was cold.With a cry of horror the person would hasten from the room. He mighthear that cry, if he left the door open. Again he laid his hand uponthe latch. His fingers seemed paralysed and the cold sweat stood on hisface, but he succeeded in mastering himself enough to turn the handleand look out. The cry came, but it was from his own lips. He reeledback from the entrance in horror, his eyes starting from his head.There stood the dead man, in the dusky passage, shaking at him thehandkerchief.
It was only his fancy. He passed his hand across his forehead and asickly look of relief crept over his face. He had been frightened byhis own coat, that hung on a peg outside, long and thin and limp, awhite handkerchief depending from the wide pocket. There was not muchlight in the corridor. He crept cautiously out and took the garmentfrom its place with a nervous, frightened gesture. Dragging it afterhim, he hastily re-entered the library and rolled up the coat into ashape that could not possibly resemble anything which might frightenhim. He laid it upon the table in the brightest place, where theafternoon sun fell upon it. There was a sort of relief in making surethat the thing could not again look like the dead man. He looked up andsaw with renewed terror that he had left the door open. There wasnothing but air between him and the place where that awful shadow hadbeen conjured up by his imagination. The door must be shut. If itremained open he should go mad. He tried to think calmly, but it wasbeyond his power. He attempted to say that there was nothing there andthat the door might as well remain open as be shut. But even whilemaking the effort to reason with himself, he was creeping cautiouslyalong the wall, in the direction of the entrance. By keeping his eyesclose to the wooden panelling he could advance without seeing into thecorridor. He was within a foot of the opening. Convulsed with fear, heput out his hand quickly and tried to pull the heavy oak on its hingesby the projecting bevel, but it was too heavy--he must look out inorder to grasp the handle. The cold drops trickled down from his browand he breathed hard, but he could not go back and leave the doorunclosed. With a suppressed sob of agony he thrust out his head andarm. In a moment it was over, but the moral effort had been terrible,and his strength failed him, so that he staggered against the wainscotand would have fallen but for its support.
Some moments elapsed before he could get to a chair, and when he atlast sat down in a ray of sunshine to rest, his eyes remained fixedupon the sculptured brass handle of the latch. He almost expected thatit would turn mysteriously of itself and that the dead prince wouldenter the room. He realised that in his present condition he could notpossibly face the person who before long would certainly bring him thenews. He must have something to stimulate him and deaden his nerves. Hehad no idea how long a time had elapsed since he had done the deed, butit seemed that three or four hours must certainly have passed. Inreality it was scarcely five and twenty minutes since he had left thestudy. He remembered suddenly that he had some spirits in his room atthe top of the palace. Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet andwent towards the other exit from the library, which, as in many ancienthouses, opened upon the grand staircase, so as to give free access tovisitors from without. He had to cross the broad marble landing, whencea masked door led to the narrow winding steps by which he ascended tothe upper story. He listened to hear whether any one was passing, andthen went out. Once on his way he moved more quickly than seemedpossible for a man so bent and mis-shapen.
The bright afternoon sun streamed in through the window of his littlechamber, a relief from the sombre gloominess of the lofty library,where the straggling rays seemed to make the great hall more shadowy bycontrast. But Meschini did not stop to look about him. In a closet inthe wall he kept his stores, his chemicals, his carefully-composedinks, his bits of prepared parchment, and, together with many otherarticles belonging to his illicit business, he had a bottle of oldbrandy, which the butler had once given him out of the prince's cellar,in return for a bit of legal advice which had saved the servant alawyer's fee. Arnoldo Meschini had always been a sober man, like mostItalians, and the bottle had stood for years unopened in the cupboard.He had never thought of it, but, having been once placed there, it hadbeen safe. The moment had come when the stimulant was precious. Hisfingers shook as he put the bottle to his lips; when he set it downthey were steady. The liquor acted like an enchantment, and thesallow-faced man smiled as he sat alone by his little table and lookedat the thing that had restored him. The bottle had been full when hebegan to drink; the level of the liquid was now a good hand's breadthbelow the neck. The quantity he had swallowed would have made atemperate man, in his normal state, almost half drunk.
He sat still for a long time, waiting to see whether the draught wouldproduce any other effect. He felt a pleasant warmth in his face andhands, the perspiration had disappeared from his brow, and he wasconscious that he could now look out of the open door of the librarywithout fear, even if his coat were hanging on the peg. It wasincredible to him that he should have been so really terrified by amere shadow. He had killed Prince Montevarchi, and the body was lyingin the study. Yes, he could think of it without shuddering, almostwithout an unpleasant sensation. In the dead man's own words, it hadbeen an act of divine justice and retribution, and since nobody couldpossibly discover the murderer, there was matter for satisfaction inthe idea that the wicked old man no longer cumbered the earth with hispresence. Strange, that he should have suffered such an agony of fearhalf an hour earlier. Was it half an hour? How pleasantly the sun shonein to the little room where he had laboured during so many years, andso profitably! Now that the prince was dead it would be amusing to lookat those original documents for which he had made suchskilfully-constructed substitutes. He would like to assure himself,however, that the deed had been well done. There was magic in that oldliquor. Another little draught and he would go down to the study asthough nothing had happened. If he should meet anybody his easy mannerwould disarm suspicion. Besides, he could take t
he bottle with him inthe pocket of his long coat--the bottle of courage, he said to himselfwith a smile, as he set it to his lips. This time he drank but little,and very slowly. He was too cautious a man to throw away his ammunitionuselessly.
With a light heart he descended the winding stair and crossed thelanding. One of Ascanio Bellegra's servants passed at that moment.Meschini looked at the fellow quietly, and even gave him a friendlysmile, to test his own coolness, a civility which was acknowledged by afamiliar nod. The librarian's spirits rose. He did not resent thefamiliarity of the footman, for, with all his learning, he was littlemore than a servant himself, and the accident had come conveniently asa trial of his strength. The man evidently saw nothing unusual in hisappearance. Moreover, as he walked, the brandy bottle in his coat tailpocket beat reassuringly against the calves of his legs. He opened thedoor of the library and found himself in the scene of his terror.
There lay the old coat, wrapped together on the table, as he had leftit. The sun had moved a little farther during his absence, and the heapof cloth looked innocent enough. Meschini could not understand how ithad frightened him so terribly. He still felt that pleasant warmthabout his face and hands. That was the door before which he had beensuch a coward. What was beyond it? The empty passage. He would go andhang the coat where it had hung always, where he always left it when hecame in the morning, unless he needed it to keep himself warm. Whatcould be simpler, or easier? He took the thing in one hand, turned thehandle and looked out. He was not afraid. The long, silent corridorstretched away into the distance, lighted at intervals by narrowwindows that opened upon an inner court of the palace. Meschinisuspended the coat upon the peg and stood looking before him, acontemptuous smile upon his face, as though he despised himself for hisformer fears. Then he resolutely walked towards the study, along thefamiliar way, down a flight of steps, then to the right--he stoodbefore the door and the dead man was on the other side of it. He pausedand listened. All was silent.
It was clear to him, as he stood before the table and looked at thebody, that no one had been there. Indeed, Meschini now remembered thatit was a rule in the house never to disturb the prince unless a visitorcame. He had always liked to spend the afternoon in solitude over hisaccounts and his plans. The librarian, paused opposite his victim andgazed at the fallen head and the twisted, whitened fingers. He put outhis hand timidly and touched them, and was surprised to find that theywere not quite cold. The touch, however, sent a very unpleasant thrillthrough his own frame, and he drew back quickly with a slight shiver.But he was not terrified as he had been before. The touch, only, wasdisagreeable to him. He took a book that lay at hand and pushed itagainst the dead man's arm. There was no sign, no movement. He wouldhave liked to go behind the chair and untie the handkerchief, but hiscourage was not quite equal to that. Besides, the handkerchief wasFaustina's. He had seen her father snatch it from her and throw it uponthe floor, as he watched the pair through the keyhole. A strangefascination kept him in the study, and he would have yielded to it hadhe not been fortified against any such morbid folly by the brandy hehad swallowed. He thought, as he turned to go, that it was a pity theprince never kept money in the house, for, in that case, he might havehelped himself before leaving. To steal a small value was not worthwhile, considering the danger of discovery.
He moved on tiptoe, as though afraid of disturbing the rest of his oldemployer, and once or twice he looked back. Then at last he closed thedoor and retraced his steps through the corridor till he gained thelibrary. He was surprised at his own boldness as he went, and at theindifference with which he passed by the coat that hung, limp as ever,upon its peg. He was satisfied, too, with the result of hisinvestigations. The prince was certainly dead. As a direct consequenceof his death, the secret of the Saracinesca suit was now his own, noone had a share in it, and it was worth money. He pulled out a numberof volumes from the shelves and began to make a pretence of workingupon the catalogue. But though he surrounded himself with theimplements and necessaries for his task, his mind was busy with the newscheme that unfolded itself to his imagination.
He and he alone, knew that San Giacinto's possession of the Saracinescainheritance rested upon a forgery. The fact that this forgery must berevealed, in order to reinstate the lawful possessors in their right,did not detract in the least from the value of the secret. Two courseswere open to him. He might go to old Leone Saracinesca and offer theoriginal documents for sale, on receiving a guarantee for his ownsafety. Or he might offer them to San Giacinto, who was the personendangered by their existence. Montevarchi had promised him twentythousand scudi for the job, and had never paid the money. He hadcancelled his debt with his life, however, and had left the secretbehind him. Either Saracinesca or San Giacinto would give five timestwenty thousand, ten times as much, perhaps, for the originaldocuments, the one in order to recover what was his own, the other tokeep what did not belong to him. The great question to be consideredwas the way of making the offer. Meschini sat staring at the oppositerow of books, engaged in solving the problem. Just then, one of theopen volumes before him slipped a little upon another and the pageturned slowly over. The librarian started slightly and glanced at theold-fashioned type. The work was a rare one, which he had oftenexamined, and he knew it to be of great value. A new thought struckhim. Why should he not sell this and many other volumes out of thecollection, as well as realise money by disposing of his secret? Hemight as well be rich as possess a mere competence.
He looked about him. With a little care and ingenuity, by working atnight and by visiting the sellers of old books during the day he mightsoon put together four or five hundred works which would fetch a highprice, and replace them by so many feet of old trash which would lookas well. With his enormous industry it would be a simple matter totamper with the catalogue and to insert new pages which shouldcorrespond with the changes he contemplated. The old prince was dead,and little as he had really known about the library, his sons knew evenless. Meschini could remove the stolen volumes to a safe place, andwhen he had realised the value of his secret, he would go to Paris, toBerlin, even to London, and dispose of his treasures one by one. He wasamazed at the delights the future unfolded to him, everything seemedgilded, everything seemed ready to turn into gold. His brain dwelt withan enthusiasm wholly new to him upon the dreams it conjured up. He felttwenty years younger. His fears had gone, and with them his humility.He saw himself no longer the poor librarian in his slippers and shabbyclothes, cringing to his employer, spending his days in studying theforgeries he afterwards executed during the night, hoarding hisill-gotten gains with jealous secrecy, afraid to show to his fewassociates that he had accumulated a little wealth, timid by force oflong habit and by the remembrance of the shame in his early life. Allthat had disappeared under the potent spell of his new-found courage.He fancied himself living in some distant capital, rich and respected,married, perhaps, having servants of his own, astonishing the learnedmen of some great centre by the extent of his knowledge and erudition.All the vanity of his nature was roused from its long sleep by a newset of emotions, till he could scarcely contain his inexplicablehappiness. And how had all this come to him so suddenly in the midst ofhis obscure life? Simply by squeezing the breath out of an old man'sthroat. How easy it had been.
The unaccustomed energy which had been awakened in him by the spiritsbrought with it a pleasant restlessness. He felt that he must go againto his little room upstairs, and take out the deeds and read them over.The sight of them would give an increased reality and vividness to hisanticipations. Besides, too, it was just barely possible that theremight be some word, some expression which he could change, and whichshould increase their value. To sit still, poring over the catalogue inthe library was impossible. Once more he climbed to his attic, but hecould not comprehend why he felt a nervous desire to look behind him,as though he were followed by some person whose tread was noiseless. Itwas not possible, he thought, that the effects of his draught werealready passing off. Such courage as he felt in him
could not leave himsuddenly. He reached his room and took the deeds from the secret placein which he had hidden them, spreading them out lovingly before him. Ashe sat down the bottle in his long coat touched the floor behind himwith a short, dull thud. It was as though a footstep had sounded in thesilent room, and he sprang to his feet before he realised whence thenoise came, looking behind him with startled eyes. In a moment heunderstood, and withdrawing the bottle from his pocket he set it besidehim on the table. He looked at it for a few seconds as though inhesitation, but he determined not to have recourse to its contents sosoon. He had undoubtedly been frightened again, but the sound that hadscared him had been real and not imaginary. Besides, he had but thisone bottle and he knew that good brandy was dear. He pushed it away,his avarice helping him to resist the temptation.
The old documents were agreeably familiar to his eye, and he read andre-read them with increasing satisfaction, comparing them carefully,and chuckling to himself each time that he reached the bottom of thesheet upon the copy, where there had been no room to introduce thatfamous clause. But for that accident, he reflected, he would haveundoubtedly made the insertion upon the originals, and the latter wouldbe now no longer in his possession. He did not quite understand why hederived such pleasure from reading the writing so often, nor why, whenthe surrounding objects in the room were clear and distinct to hiseyes, the crabbed characters should every now and then seem to move ofthemselves and to run into each other from right to left. Possibly theemotions of the day had strained his vision. He looked up and saw thebottle. An irresistible desire seized him to taste the liquor again,even if he drank but a drop. The spirits wet his lips while he wasstill inwardly debating whether it were wise to drink or not. As hereturned the cork to its place he felt a sudden revival within him ofall he had experienced before. His face was warm, his fingers tingled.He took up one of the deeds with a firm hand and settled himselfcomfortably in his chair. But he could not read it through again. Helaughed quietly at his folly. Did he not know every word by heart? Hemust occupy himself with planning, with arranging the details of hisfuture. When that was done he could revel in the thought of wealth andrest and satisfied vanity.
To his surprise, his thoughts did not flow as connectedly as he hadexpected. He could not help thinking of the dead man downstairs, notindeed with any terror, not fearing discovery for himself, but with avague wonderment that made his mind feel empty. Turn over the matter ashe would, he could not foresee connectedly what was likely to happenwhen the murder was known. There was no sequence in his imaginings, andhe longed nervously for the moment when everything should be settled.The restlessness that had brought him up to his room demanded some sortof action to quiet it. He would willingly have gone out to see hisfriend, the little apothecary who lived near the Ponte Quattro Capi. Itwould be a relief to talk to some one, to hear the sound of a humanvoice. But a remnant of prudence restrained him. It was not very likelythat he should be suspected; indeed, if he behaved prudently nothingwas more improbable. To leave the house at such a time, however, wouldbe the height of folly, unless it could be proved that he had gone outsome time before the deed could have been done. The porter wasvigilant, and Meschini almost always exchanged a few words with him ashe passed through the gates. He would certainly note the time of thelibrarian's exit more or less accurately. Moreover, the body might havebeen found already, and even now the gendarmes might be downstairs. Thelatter consideration determined him to descend once more to thelibrary. A slight chill passed over him as he closed the door of hisroom behind him.
The great hall now seemed very gloomy and cold, and the solitude wasoppressive. He felt the necessity for movement, and began to walkquickly up and down the length of the library between the broad tables,from one door to the other. At first, as he reached the one thatseparated him from the passage he experienced no disagreeablesensation, but turned his back upon it at the end of his walk andretraced his steps. Very gradually, however, he began to feeluncomfortable as he reached that extremity of the room, and the visionof the dead prince rose before his eyes. The coat was there again, onthe other side of the door. No doubt it would take the same shape againif he looked at it. His varying courage was just at the point when hewas able to look out in order to assure himself that the limp garmenthad not assumed the appearance of a ghost. He felt a painful thrill inhis back as he turned the handle, and the cold air that rushed in as heopened the door seemed to come from a tomb. Although his eyes weresatisfied when he had seen the coat in the corner, he drew backquickly, and the thrill was repeated with greater distinctness as heheard the bolt of the latch slip into its socket. He walked away again,but the next time he came back he turned at some distance from thethreshold, and, as he turned, he felt the thrill a third time, almostlike an electric shock. He could not bear it and sat down before thecatalogue. His eyes refused to read, and after a lengthened strugglebetween his fears, his prudence and his economy, he once more drew thebottle from his pocket and fortified himself with a draught. This timehe drank more, and the effect was different. For some seconds he feltno change in his condition. Presently, however, his nervousnessdisappeared, giving place now to a sort of stupid indifference. Thelight was fading from the clerestory windows of the library, and,within, the corners and recesses were already dark. But Meschini waspast imagining ghosts or apparitions. He sat quite still, his chinleaning on his hand and his elbow on the table, wondering vaguely howlong it would be before they came to tell him that the prince was dead.He did not sleep, but he fell into a state of torpor which was restfulto his nerves. Sleep would certainly come in half an hour if he wereleft to himself as long as that. His breathing was heavy, and thesilence around him was intense. At last the much-dreaded moment came,and found him dull and apathetic.
The door opened and a ray of light from a candle entered the room,which was now almost dark. A foot-man and a housemaid thrust in theirheads cautiously and peered into the broad gloom, holding the candlehigh before them. Either would have been afraid to come alone.
"Sor Arnoldo, Sor Arnoldo!" the man called out timidly, as thoughfrightened by the sound of his own voice.
"Here I am," answered Meschini, affecting a cheerful tone as well as hecould. Once more and very quickly he took a mouthful from the bottle,behind the table where they could not see him. "What is the matter?" heasked.
"The prince is murdered!" cried the two servants in a breath. They werevery pale as they came towards him.
If the cry he uttered was forced they were too much terrified to noticeit. As they told their tale with every species of exaggeration,interspersed with expressions of horror and amazement, he struck hishands to his head, moaned, cried aloud, and, being half hysterical withdrink, shed real tears in their presence. Then they led him away,saying that the prefect of police was in the study and that all thehousehold had been summoned to be examined by him. He was now launchedin his part, and could play it to the end without breaking down. He hadafterwards very little recollection of what had occurred. He rememberedthat the stillness of the study and the white faces of those presenthad impressed him by contrast with the noisy grief of the servants whohad summoned him. He remembered that he had sworn, and others hadcorroborated his oath, to the effect that he had spent the afternoonbetween the library and his room. Ascanio Bellegra's footman rememberedmeeting him on the landing, and said that he had smiled pleasantly inan unconcerned way, as usual, and had passed on. For the rest, no oneseemed even to imagine that he could have done the deed, for no one hadever heard anything but friendly words between him and the prince. Heremembered, too, having seen the dead body extended upon the greattable of the study, and he recalled Donna Faustina's tone of voiceindistinctly as in a dream. Then, before the prefect announced hisdecision, he was dismissed with the other servants.
After that moment all was a blank in his mind. In reality he returnedto his room and sat down by his table with a candle before him. Henever knew that after the examination he had begged another bottle ofliquor of the butler on
the ground that his nerves were upset by theterrible event. About midnight the candle burned down into the socket.Profiting by the last ray of light he drank a final draught and reeledto his bed, dressed as he was. One bottle was empty, and a third of thesecond was gone. Arnoldo Meschini was dead drunk.