Arnoldo Meschini was fully conscious of what he had done when he softly
closed the door of the study behind him and returned to the library;
but although he knew and realised that he had murdered his employer, he
could not explain the act to himself. His temples throbbed painfully
and there was a bright red spot in each of his sallow cheeks. He
shuffled about from one bookcase to another, and his hands trembled
violently as he touched the big volumes. Now and then he glanced
towards one or the other of the doors expecting at every moment that
some one would enter to tell him the news, if indeed any one at such a
time should chance to remember the existence of the humble librarian.
His brain was on fire and seemed to burn the sockets of his eyes. And
yet the time passed, and no one came. The suspense grew to be
unbearable, and he felt that he would do anything to escape from it. He
went to the door and laid his hand upon the latch.
For an instant the flush disappeared from his cheeks, as a great fear
took possession of him. He was not able to face the sight of
Montevarchi's body lying across that table in the silent study. His
hand fell to his side and he almost ran to the other side of the
library; then, as though ashamed of his weakness he came back slowly
and listened at the door. It was scarcely possible that any distant
echo could reach his ears, if the household had been already roused,
for the passage was long and tortuous, interrupted by other doors and
by a winding staircase. But in his present state he fancied that his
senses must be preternaturally sharpened and he listened eagerly. All
was still. He went back to the books.
There was nothing to be done but to make a desperate effort to occupy
himself and to steady his nerves. If any one came now, he thought, his
face would betray him. There must be a light in his eyes, an
uncertainty in his manner which would speak plainly enough to his
guilt. He tried to imagine what would take place when the body was
found. Some one would enter the room and would see the body. He, or
she, would perhaps think that the prince was in a fit, or asleep--who
could tell? But he would not answer the voice that called him. Then the
person would come forward and touch him--Meschini forced himself to
think 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 might
hear that cry, if he left the door open. Again he laid his hand upon
the latch. His fingers seemed paralysed and the cold sweat stood on his
face, but he succeeded in mastering himself enough to turn the handle
and look out. The cry came, but it was from his own lips. He reeled
back from the entrance in horror, his eyes starting from his head.
There stood the dead man, in the dusky passage, shaking at him the
handkerchief.
It was only his fancy. He passed his hand across his forehead and a
sickly look of relief crept over his face. He had been frightened by
his own coat, that hung on a peg outside, long and thin and limp, a
white handkerchief depending from the wide pocket. There was not much
light in the corridor. He crept cautiously out and took the garment
from its place with a nervous, frightened gesture. Dragging it after
him, he hastily re-entered the library and rolled up the coat into a
shape that could not possibly resemble anything which might frighten
him. He laid it upon the table in the brightest place, where the
afternoon sun fell upon it. There was a sort of relief in making sure
that the thing could not again look like the dead man. He looked up and
saw with renewed terror that he had left the door open. There was
nothing but air between him and the place where that awful shadow had
been conjured up by his imagination. The door must be shut. If it
remained open he should go mad. He tried to think calmly, but it was
beyond his power. He attempted to say that there was nothing there and
that the door might as well remain open as be shut. But even while
making the effort to reason with himself, he was creeping cautiously
along the wall, in the direction of the entrance. By keeping his eyes
close to the wooden panelling he could advance without seeing into the
corridor. He was within a foot of the opening. Convulsed with fear, he
put out his hand quickly and tried to pull the heavy oak on its hinges
by the projecting bevel, but it was too heavy--he must look out in
order to grasp the handle. The cold drops trickled down from his brow
and he breathed hard, but he could not go back and leave the door
unclosed. With a suppressed sob of agony he thrust out his head and
arm. In a moment it was over, but the moral effort had been terrible,
and his strength failed him, so that he staggered against the wainscot
and would have fallen but for its support.
Some moments elapsed before he could get to a chair, and when he at
last sat down in a ray of sunshine to rest, his eyes remained fixed
upon the sculptured brass handle of the latch. He almost expected that
it would turn mysteriously of itself and that the dead prince would
enter the room. He realised that in his present condition he could not
possibly face the person who before long would certainly bring him the
news. He must have something to stimulate him and deaden his nerves. He
had no idea how long a time had elapsed since he had done the deed, but
it seemed that three or four hours must certainly have passed. In
reality it was scarcely five and twenty minutes since he had left the
study. He remembered suddenly that he had some spirits in his room at
the top of the palace. Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet and
went towards the other exit from the library, which, as in many ancient
houses, opened upon the grand staircase, so as to give free access to
visitors from without. He had to cross the broad marble landing, whence
a masked door led to the narrow winding steps by which he ascended to
the upper story. He listened to hear whether any one was passing, and
then went out. Once on his way he moved more quickly than seemed
possible for a man so bent and mis-shapen.
The bright afternoon sun streamed in through the window of his little
chamber, a relief from the sombre gloominess of the lofty library,
where the straggling rays seemed to make the great hall more shadowy by
contrast. But Meschini did not stop to look about him. In a closet in
the wall he kept his stores, his chemicals, his carefully-composed
inks, his bits of prepared parchment, and, together with many other
articles belonging to his illicit business, he had a bottle of old
brandy, 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 a
lawyer's fee. Arnoldo Meschini had always been a sober man, like most
Italians, and the bottle had stood for years unopened in the cupboard.
He had never thought of it, but, having been once placed there, it had
been safe. The moment had come when the stimulant was precious. His
fingers shook as he put the bottle to his lips; when he set it down
they were steady. The liquor acted like an enchantment, and the
sallow-faced man smiled as he sat alone by his little table and looked
at the thing that had restored him. The bottle had been full when he
began to drink; the level of the liquid was now a good hand's breadth
below the neck. The quantity he had swallowed would have made a
temperate man, in his normal state, almost half drunk.
He sat still for a long time, waiting to see whether the draught would
produce any other effect. He felt a pleasant warmth in his face and
hands, the perspiration had disappeared from his brow, and he was
conscious that he could now look out of the open door of the library
without fear, even if his coat were hanging on the peg. It was
incredible to him that he should have been so really terrified by a
mere shadow. He had killed Prince Montevarchi, and the body was lying
in the study. Yes, he could think of it without shuddering, almost
without an unpleasant sensation. In the dead man's own words, it had
been an act of divine justice and retribution, and since nobody could
possibly discover the murderer, there was matter for satisfaction in
the idea that the wicked old man no longer cumbered the earth with his
presence. Strange, that he should have suffered such an agony of fear
half an hour earlier. Was it half an hour? How pleasantly the sun shone
in to the little room where he had laboured during so many years, and
so profitably! Now that the prince was dead it would be amusing to look
at those original documents for which he had made such
skilfully-constructed substitutes. He would like to assure himself,
however, that the deed had been well done. There was magic in that old
liquor. Another little draught and he would go down to the study as
though nothing had happened. If he should meet anybody his easy manner
would disarm suspicion. Besides, he could take the bottle with him in
the pocket of his long coat--the bottle of courage, he said to himself
with 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 ammunition
uselessly.
With a light heart he descended the winding stair and crossed the
landing. One of Ascanio Bellegra's servants passed at that moment.
Meschini looked at the fellow quietly, and even gave him a friendly
smile, to test his own coolness, a civility which was acknowledged by a
familiar nod. The librarian's spirits rose. He did not resent the
familiarity of the footman, for, with all his learning, he was little
more than a servant himself, and the accident had come conveniently as
a trial of his strength. The man evidently saw nothing unusual in his
appearance. Moreover, as he walked, the brandy bottle in his coat tail
pocket beat reassuringly against the calves of his legs. He opened the
door 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 left
it. The sun had moved a little farther during his absence, and the heap
of cloth looked innocent enough. Meschini could not understand how it
had frightened him so terribly. He still felt that pleasant warmth
about his face and hands. That was the door before which he had been
such a coward. What was beyond it? The empty passage. He would go and
hang the coat where it had hung always, where he always left it when he
came in the morning, unless he needed it to keep himself warm. What
could be simpler, or easier? He took the thing in one hand, turned the
handle and looked out. He was not afraid. The long, silent corridor
stretched away into the distance, lighted at intervals by narrow
windows that opened upon an inner court of the palace. Meschini
suspended the coat upon the peg and stood looking before him, a
contemptuous smile upon his face, as though he despised himself for his
former fears. Then he resolutely walked towards the study, along the
familiar way, down a flight of steps, then to the right--he stood
before the door and the dead man was on the other side of it. He paused
and listened. All was silent.
It was clear to him, as he stood before the table and looked at the
body, that no one had been there. Indeed, Meschini now remembered that
it was a rule in the house never to disturb the prince unless a visitor
came. He had always liked to spend the afternoon in solitude over his
accounts and his plans. The librarian, paused opposite his victim and
gazed at the fallen head and the twisted, whitened fingers. He put out
his hand timidly and touched them, and was surprised to find that they
were not quite cold. The touch, however, sent a very unpleasant thrill
through 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, was
disagreeable to him. He took a book that lay at hand and pushed it
against the dead man's arm. There was no sign, no movement. He would
have liked to go behind the chair and untie the handkerchief, but his
courage was not quite equal to that. Besides, the handkerchief was
Faustina's. He had seen her father snatch it from her and throw it upon
the floor, as he watched the pair through the keyhole. A strange
fascination kept him in the study, and he would have yielded to it had
he not been fortified against any such morbid folly by the brandy he
had swallowed. He thought, as he turned to go, that it was a pity the
prince never kept money in the house, for, in that case, he might have
helped himself before leaving. To steal a small value was not worth
while, considering the danger of discovery.
He moved on tiptoe, as though afraid of disturbing the rest of his old
employer, and once or twice he looked back. Then at last he closed the
door and retraced his steps through the corridor till he gained the
library. He was surprised at his own boldness as he went, and at the
indifference with which he passed by the coat that hung, limp as ever,
upon its peg. He was satisfied, too, with the result of his
investigations. The prince was certainly dead. As a direct consequence
of his death, the secret of the Saracinesca suit was now his own, no
one had a share in it, and it was worth money. He pulled out a number
of volumes from the shelves and began to make a pretence of working
upon the catalogue. But though he surrounded himself with the
implements and necessaries for his task, his mind was busy with the new
scheme that unfolded itself to his imagination.
He and he alone, knew that San Giacinto's possession of the Saracinesca
inheritance rested upon a forgery. The fact that this forgery must be
revealed, in order to reinstate the lawful possessors in their right,
did not detract in the least from the value of the secret. Two courses
were open to him. He might go to old Leone Saracinesca and offer the
original documents for sale, on receiving a guarantee for his own
safety. Or he might offer them to San Giacinto, who was the person
endangered by their existence. Montevarchi had promised him twenty
thousand scudi for the job, and had never paid the money. He had
cancelled his debt with his life, however, and had left the secret
behind him. Either Saracinesca or San Giacinto would give five times
twenty thousand, ten times as much, perhaps, for the original
documents, the one in order to recover what was his own, the other to
keep what did not belong to him. The great question to be considered
was the way of making the offer. Meschini sat staring at the opposite
row of books, engaged in solving the problem. Just then, one of the
open volumes before him slipped a little upon another and the page
turned slowly over. The librarian started slightly and glanced at the
old-fashioned type. The work was a rare one, which he had often
examined, and he knew it to be of great value. A new thought struck
him. Why should he not sell this and many other volumes out of the
collection, as well as realise money by disposing of his secret? He
might as well be rich as possess a mere competence.
He looked about him. With a little care and ingenuity, by working at
night and by visiting the sellers of old books during the day he might
soon put together four or five hundred works which would fetch a high
price, and replace them by so many feet of old trash which would look
as well. With his enormous industry it would be a simple matter to
tamper with the catalogue and to insert new pages which should
correspond with the changes he contemplated. The old prince was dead,
and little as he had really known about the library, his sons knew even
less. Meschini could remove the stolen volumes to a safe place, and
when he had realised the value of his secret, he would go to Paris, to
Berlin, even to London, and dispose of his treasures one by one. He was
amazed at the delights the future unfolded to him, everything seemed
gilded, everything seemed ready to turn into gold. His brain dwelt with
an enthusiasm wholly new to him upon the dreams it conjured up. He felt
twenty years younger. His fears had gone, and with them his humility.
He saw himself no longer the poor librarian in his slippers and shabby
clothes, cringing to his employer, spending his days in studying the
forgeries he afterwards executed during the night, hoarding his
ill-gotten gains with jealous secrecy, afraid to show to his few
associates that he had accumulated a little wealth, timid by force of
long habit and by the remembrance of the shame in his early life. All
that 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 learned
men 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 new
set of emotions, till he could scarcely contain his inexplicable
happiness. And how had all this come to him so suddenly in the midst of
his obscure life? Simply by squeezing the breath out of an old man's
throat. How easy it had been.
The unaccustomed energy which had been awakened in him by the spirits
brought with it a pleasant restlessness. He felt that he must go again
to 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 his
anticipations. Besides, too, it was just barely possible that there
might be some word, some expression which he could change, and which
should increase their value. To sit still, poring over the catalogue in
the library was impossible. Once more he climbed to his attic, but he
could not comprehend why he felt a nervous desire to look behind him,
as though he were followed by some person whose tread was noiseless. It
was not possible, he thought, that the effects of his draught were
already passing off. Such courage as he felt in him could not leave him
suddenly. He reached his room and took the deeds from the secret place
in which he had hidden them, spreading them out lovingly before him. As
he sat down the bottle in his long coat touched the floor behind him
with a short, dull thud. It was as though a footstep had sounded in the
silent room, and he sprang to his feet before he realised whence the
noise came, looking behind him with startled eyes. In a moment he
understood, and withdrawing the bottle from his pocket he set it beside
him on the table. He looked at it for a few seconds as though in
hesitation, but he determined not to have recourse to its contents so
soon. He had undoubtedly been frightened again, but the sound that had
scared him had been real and not imaginary. Besides, he had but this
one 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 and
re-read them with increasing satisfaction, comparing them carefully,
and chuckling to himself each time that he reached the bottom of the
sheet upon the copy, where there had been no room to introduce that
famous clause. But for that accident, he reflected, he would have
undoubtedly made the insertion upon the originals, and the latter would
be now no longer in his possession. He did not quite understand why he
derived such pleasure from reading the writing so often, nor why, when
the surrounding objects in the room were clear and distinct to his
eyes, the crabbed characters should every now and then seem to move of
themselves and to run into each other from right to left. Possibly the
emotions of the day had strained his vision. He looked up and saw the
bottle. An irresistible desire seized him to taste the liquor again,
even if he drank but a drop. The spirits wet his lips while he was
still inwardly debating whether it were wise to drink or not. As he
returned the cork to its place he felt a sudden revival within him of
all he had experienced before. His face was warm, his fingers tingled.
He took up one of the deeds with a firm hand and settled himself
comfortably in his chair. But he could not read it through again. He
laughed quietly at his folly. Did he not know every word by heart? He
must occupy himself with planning, with arranging the details of his
future. When that was done he could revel in the thought of wealth and
rest and satisfied vanity.
To his surprise, his thoughts did not flow as connectedly as he had
expected. He could not help thinking of the dead man downstairs, not
indeed with any terror, not fearing discovery for himself, but with a
vague wonderment that made his mind feel empty. Turn over the matter as
he would, he could not foresee connectedly what was likely to happen
when the murder was known. There was no sequence in his imaginings, and
he longed nervously for the moment when everything should be settled.
The restlessness that had brought him up to his room demanded some sort
of action to quiet it. He would willingly have gone out to see his
friend, the little apothecary who lived near the Ponte Quattro Capi. It
would be a relief to talk to some one, to hear the sound of a human
voice. But a remnant of prudence restrained him. It was not very likely
that he should be suspected; indeed, if he behaved prudently nothing
was more improbable. To leave the house at such a time, however, would
be the height of folly, unless it could be proved that he had gone out
some time before the deed could have been done. The porter was
vigilant, and Meschini almost always exchanged a few words with him as
he passed through the gates. He would certainly note the time of the
librarian's exit more or less accurately. Moreover, the body might have
been found already, and even now the gendarmes might be downstairs. The
latter consideration determined him to descend once more to the
library. A slight chill passed over him as he closed the door of his
room behind him.
The great hall now seemed very gloomy and cold, and the solitude was
oppressive. He felt the necessity for movement, and began to walk
quickly 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 that
separated him from the passage he experienced no disagreeable
sensation, but turned his back upon it at the end of his walk and
retraced his steps. Very gradually, however, he began to feel
uncomfortable as he reached that extremity of the room, and the vision
of the dead prince rose before his eyes. The coat was there again, on
the other side of the door. No doubt it would take the same shape again
if he looked at it. His varying courage was just at the point when he
was able to look out in order to assure himself that the limp garment
had not assumed the appearance of a ghost. He felt a painful thrill in
his back as he turned the handle, and the cold air that rushed in as he
opened the door seemed to come from a tomb. Although his eyes were
satisfied when he had seen the coat in the corner, he drew back
quickly, and the thrill was repeated with greater distinctness as he
heard 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 the
threshold, and, as he turned, he felt the thrill a third time, almost
like an electric shock. He could not bear it and sat down before the
catalogue. His eyes refused to read, and after a lengthened struggle
between his fears, his prudence and his economy, he once more drew the
bottle from his pocket and fortified himself with a draught. This time
he drank more, and the effect was different. For some seconds he felt
no change in his condition. Presently, however, his nervousness
disappeared, giving place now to a sort of stupid indifference. The
light was fading from the clerestory windows of the library, and,
within, the corners and recesses were already dark. But Meschini was
past imagining ghosts or apparitions. He sat quite still, his chin
leaning on his hand and his elbow on the table, wondering vaguely how
long 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 restful
to his nerves. Sleep would certainly come in half an hour if he were
left to himself as long as that. His breathing was heavy, and the
silence 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 their
heads cautiously and peered into the broad gloom, holding the candle
high before them. Either would have been afraid to come alone.
"Sor Arnoldo, Sor Arnoldo!" the man called out timidly, as though
frightened by the sound of his own voice.
"Here I am," answered Meschini, affecting a cheerful tone as well as he
could. 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?" he
asked.
"The prince is murdered!" cried the two servants in a breath. They were
very pale as they came towards him.
If the cry he uttered was forced they were too much terrified to notice
it. As they told their tale with every species of exaggeration,
interspersed with expressions of horror and amazement, he struck his
hands to his head, moaned, cried aloud, and, being half hysterical with
drink, shed real tears in their presence. Then they led him away,
saying that the prefect of police was in the study and that all the
household had been summoned to be examined by him. He was now launched
in his part, and could play it to the end without breaking down. He had
afterwards very little recollection of what had occurred. He remembered
that the stillness of the study and the white faces of those present
had impressed him by contrast with the noisy grief of the servants who
had summoned him. He remembered that he had sworn, and others had
corroborated his oath, to the effect that he had spent the afternoon
between the library and his room. Ascanio Bellegra's footman remembered
meeting him on the landing, and said that he had smiled pleasantly in
an unconcerned way, as usual, and had passed on. For the rest, no one
seemed even to imagine that he could have done the deed, for no one had
ever heard anything but friendly words between him and the prince. He
remembered, too, having seen the dead body extended upon the great
table of the study, and he recalled Donna Faustina's tone of voice
indistinctly as in a dream. Then, before the prefect announced his
decision, he was dismissed with the other servants.
After that moment all was a blank in his mind. In reality he returned
to his room and sat down by his table with a candle before him. He
never knew that after the examination he had begged another bottle of
liquor of the butler on the ground that his nerves were upset by the
terrible event. About midnight the candle burned down into the socket.
Profiting by the last ray of light he drank a final draught and reeled
to his bed, dressed as he was. One bottle was empty, and a third of the
second was gone. Arnoldo Meschini was dead drunk.