The scene in the study, while the notary read through the voluminous
documents, is worth describing. At one end of the large green table sat
San Giacinto alone, his form, even as he sat, towering above the rest.
The mourning he wore harmonised with his own dark and massive head. His
expression was calm and thoughtful, betraying neither satisfaction nor
triumph. From time to time his deep-set eyes turned towards Saracinesca
with a look of inquiry, as though to assure himself that the prince
agreed to the various points and was aware that he must now speak for
the last time, if he spoke at all. At the other end of the board the
two Saracinesca were seated side by side. The strong resemblance that
existed between them was made very apparent by their position, but
although, allowing for the difference of their ages, their features
corresponded almost line for line, their expressions were totally
different. The old man's gray hair and pointed beard seemed to bristle
with suppressed excitement. His heavy brows were bent together, as
though he were making a great effort to control his temper, and now and
then there was an angry gleam in his eyes. He sat square and erect in
his seat, as though he were facing an enemy, but he kept his hands
below the table, for he did not choose that San Giacinto should see the
nervous working of his fingers. Giovanni, on the other hand, looked
upon the proceedings with an indifference that was perfectly apparent.
He occasionally looked at his watch, suppressed a yawn, and examined
his nails with great interest. It was clear that he was not in the
least moved by what was going on. It was no light matter for the old
nobleman to listen to the documents that deprived him one by one of his
titles, his estates, and his other wealth, in favour of a man who was
still young, and whom, in spite of the relationship, he could not help
regarding as an inferior. He had always considered himself as the
representative of an older generation, who, by right of position, was
entitled to transmit to his son the whole mass of those proud
traditions in which he had grown up as in his natural element.
Giovanni, on the contrary, possessed a goodly share of that
indifference that characterises the younger men of the nineteenth
century. He was perfectly satisfied with his present situation, and had
been so long accustomed to depend upon his personality and his private
fortune, for all that he enjoyed or required in life, that he did not
desire the responsibilities that weigh heavily upon the head of a great
family. Moreover, recent events had turned the current of his thoughts
into a different direction. He was in his way as happy as Corona, and
he knew that real happiness proceeds from something more than a score
of titles and a few millions of money, more or less. He regarded the
long morning's work as an intolerable nuisance, which prevented him
from spending his time with his wife.
In the middle of the table sat the two notaries, flanked by four
clerks, all of them pale men in black, clean shaved, of various ages,
but bearing on their faces the almost unmistakable stamp of their
profession. The one who was reading the deeds wore spectacles. From
time to time he pushed them back upon his bald forehead and glanced
first at San Giacinto and then at Prince Saracinesca, after which he
carefully resettled the glasses upon his long nose and proceeded with
his task until he had reached the end of another set of clauses, when
he repeated the former operation with mechanical regularity, never
failing to give San Giacinto the precedence of the first look.
For a long time this went on, with a monotony which almost drove
Giovanni from the room. Indeed nothing but absolute necessity could
have kept him in his place. At last the final deed was reached. It was
an act of restitution drawn up in a simple form so as to include, by a
few words, all the preceding documents. It set forth that Leone
Saracinesca being "free in body and mind," the son of Giovanni
Saracinesca deceased, "whom may the Lord preserve in a state of glory,"
restored, gave back, yielded, and abandoned all those goods, titles,
and benefices which he had inherited directly from Leone Saracinesca,
the eleventh of that name, deceased, "whom may the Lord preserve in a
state of glory," to Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto, who
was "free in body and mind," son of Orsino Saracinesca, ninth of that
name, deceased, "whom may the Lord, etc." Not one of the quaint stock
phrases was omitted. The notary paused, looked round, adjusted his
spectacles and continued. The deed further set forth that Giovanni
Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto aforesaid, acknowledged the
receipt of the aforesaid goods, titles, and benefices, and stated that
he received all as the complete inheritance, relinquishing all further
claims against the aforesaid Leone and his heirs for ever. Once more
the reader paused, and then read the last words in a clear voice--
"Both the noble parties promising, finally, in regard to the present
cession, to take account of it, to hold it as acceptable, valid, and
perpetual, and, for the same, never to allow it to be spoken of
otherwise."
A few words followed, setting forth the name of the notary and the
statement that the act was executed in his presence, with the date.
When he had finished reading all, he rose and turned the document upon
the table so that the two parties could stand opposite to him and sign
it. Without a word he made a slight inclination and offered the pen to
Saracinesca. The old gentleman pushed back his chair and marched
forward with erect head and a firm step to sign away what had been his
birthright. From first to last he had acknowledged the justice of his
cousin's claims, and he was not the man to waver at the supreme moment.
His hair bristled more stiffly than ever, and his dark eyes shot fire,
but he took the pen and wrote his great strong signature as clearly as
he had written it at the foot of his marriage contract five and thirty
years earlier. Giovanni looked at him with admiration.
Then San Giacinto, who had risen out of respect to the old man, came
forward and took the pen in his turn. He wrote out his name in
straight, firm characters as usual, but at the end the ink made a broad
black mark that ended abruptly, as though the writer had put the last
stroke to a great undertaking.
"There should be two witnesses," said the notary in the awkward silence
that followed. "Don Giovanni can be one," he added, giving the latter
the only name that was now his, with a lawyer's scrupulous exactness.
"One of your clerks can be the other," suggested Saracinesca, who was
anxious to get away as soon as possible.
"It is not usual," replied the notary. "Is there no one in the palace?
One of the young princes would do admirably."
"They are all away," said San Giacinto. "Let me see--there is the
librarian. Will he answer the purpose? He must be in the library at
this hour. A respectable man--he has been thirty years in the house.
For that matter, the steward is probably in his office, too."
"The librarian is the best person," answered the notary.
"I will bring him at once--I know the way." San Giacinto left the study
by the door that opened upon the passage. The others could hear his
heavy steps as he went rapidly up the paved corridor. Old Saracinesca
walked up and down the room unable to conceal his impatience. Giovanni
resumed his seat and waited quietly, indifferent to the last.
Arnoldo Meschini was in the library, as San Giacinto had anticipated.
He was seated at his usual place at the upper end of the hall,
surrounded by books and writing materials which he handled nervously
without making any serious attempt to use them. He had lost all power
of concentrating his thoughts or of making any effort to work.
Fortunately for him no one had paid any attention to him during the
past ten days. His appearance was dishevelled and slovenly, and he was
more bent than he had formerly been. His eyes were bleared and glassy
as he stared at the table before him, assuming a wild and startled
expression when, looking up, he fancied he saw some horrible object
gliding quickly across the sunny floor, or creeping up to him over the
polished table. All his former air of humility and shabby
respectability was gone. His disordered dress, his straggling grayish
hair that hung from beneath the dirty black skullcap around his
misshapen ears, his face, yellow in parts and irregularly flushed in
others, as though it were beginning to be scorched from within, his
unwashed hands, every detail of his appearance, in short, proclaimed
his total degradation. But hitherto no one had noticed him, for he had
lived between his attic, the deserted library and the apothecary's shop
on the island of Saint Bartholomew. His mind had almost ceased to act
when he was awake, except in response to the fear which the smallest
circumstances now caused him. If he had dreams by night, he saw visions
also in the day, and his visions generally took the shape of San
Giacinto. He had not really seen him since he had met him when the
prince lay in state, but the fear of him was, if anything, greater than
if he had met him daily. The idea that the giant was lying in wait for
him had become fixed, and yet he was powerless to fly. His energy was
all gone between his potations and the constant terror that paralysed
him.
On that morning he had been as usual to the Ponte Quattro Capi and had
returned with the means of sleep in his pocket. He had no instinct left
but to deaden his sensations with drink during the hours of light,
while waiting for the time when he could lie down and yield to the more
potent influence of the opium. He had therefore come back as usual, and
by force of habit had taken his place in the library, the fear of
seeming to neglect his supposed duties forbidding him to spend all his
time in his room. As usual, too, he had locked the door of the passage
to separate himself from his dread of a supernatural visitation. He sat
doubled together in his chair, his long arms lying out before him upon
the books and papers.
All at once he started in his seat. One, two, one two--yes, there were
footsteps in the corridor--they were coming nearer and nearer--heavy,
like those of the dead prince--but quicker, like those of San
Giacinto--closer, closer yet. A hand turned the latch once, twice, then
shook the lock roughly. Meschini was helpless. He could neither get
upon his feet and escape by the other exit, nor find the way to the
pocket that held his weapon. Again the latch was turned and shaken, and
then the deep voice he dreaded was heard calling to him.
"Signor Meschini!"
He shrieked aloud with fear, but he was paralysed in every limb. A
moment later a terrible crash drowned his cries. San Giacinto, on
hearing his agonised scream, had feared some accident. He drew back a
step and then, with a spring, threw his colossal strength against the
line where the leaves of the door joined. The lock broke in its
sockets, the panels cracked under the tremendous pressure, and the door
flew wide open. In a moment San Giacinto was standing over the
librarian, trying to drag him back from the table and out of his seat.
He thought the man was in a fit. In reality he was insane with terror.
"An easy death, for the love of heaven!" moaned the wretch, twisting
himself under the iron hands that held him by the shoulders. "For God's
sake! I will tell you all--do not torture me--oh! oh!--only let it be
easy--and quick--yes, I tell you--I killed the prince--oh, mercy,
mercy, for Christ's sake!"
San Giacinto's grip tightened, and his face grew livid. He lifted
Meschini bodily from the chair and set him against the table, holding
him up at arm's length, his deep eyes blazing with a rage that would
soon be uncontrollable. Meschini's naturally strong constitution did
not afford him the relief of fainting.
"You killed him--why?" asked San Giacinto through his teeth, scarcely
able to speak.
"For you, for you--oh, have mercy--do not--"
"Silence!" cried the giant in a voice that shook the vault of the hall.
"Answer me or I will tear your head from your body with my hands! Why
do you say you killed him for me?"
Meschini trembled all over, and then his contorted face grew almost
calm. He had reached that stage which may be called the somnambulism of
fear. The perspiration covered his skin in an instant, and his voice
sank to a distinct whisper.
"He made me forge the deeds, and would not pay me for them. Then I
killed him."
"What deeds?"
"The deeds that have made you Prince Saracinesca. If you do not believe
me, go to my room, the originals are in the cupboard. The key is here,
in my right-hand pocket."
He could not move to get it, for San Giacinto held him fast, and
watched every attempt he made at a movement. His own face was deathly
pale, and his white lips were compressed together.
"You forged them altogether, and the originals are untouched?" he
asked, his grasp tightening unconsciously till Meschini yelled with
pain.
"Yes!" he cried. "Oh, do not hurt me--an easy death--"
"Come with me," said San Giacinto, leaving his arms and taking him by
the collar. Then he dragged and pushed him towards the splintered door
of the passage. At the threshold, Meschini writhed and tried to draw
back, but he could no more have escaped from those hands that held him
than a lamb can loosen the talons of an eagle when they are buried deep
in the flesh.
"Go on!" urged the strong man, in fierce tones. "You came by this
passage to kill him--you know the way."
With a sudden movement of his right hand he launched the howling wretch
forward into the corridor. All through the narrow way Meschini's cries
for mercy resounded, loud and piercing, but no one heard him. The walls
were thick and the distance from the inhabited rooms was great. But at
last the shrieks reached the study.
Saracinesca stood still in his walk. Giovanni sprang to his feet. The
notaries sat in their places and trembled. The noise came nearer and
then the door flew open. San Giacinto dragged the shapeless mass of
humanity in and flung it half way across the room, so that it sank in a
heap at the old prince's feet.
"There is the witness to the deeds," he cried savagely. "He forged
them, and he shall witness them in hell. He killed his master in this
very room, and here he shall tell the truth before he dies. Confess,
you dog! And be quick about it, or I will help you."
He stirred the grovelling creature with his foot. Meschini only rolled
from side to side and hid his face against the floor. Then the gigantic
hands seized him again and set him on his feet, and held him with his
face to the eight men who had all risen and were standing together in
wondering silence.
"Speak!" shouted San Giacinto in Meschini's ear. "You are not dead
yet--you have much to live through, I hope."
Again that trembling passed over the unfortunate man's limbs, and he
grew quiet and submissive. It was all as he had seen it in his wild
dreams and visions, the secret chamber whence no sound could reach the
outer world, the stern judges all in black, the cruel strength of San
Giacinto ready to torture him. The shadow of death rose in his eyes.
"Let me sit down," he said in a broken voice.
San Giacinto led him to a chair in the midst of them all. Then he stood
before one of the doors, and motioned to his cousin to guard the other.
But Arnoldo Meschini had no hope of escape. His hour was at hand, and
he knew it.
"You forged the deeds which were presented as originals in the court.
Confess it to those gentlemen." It was San Giacinto who spoke.
"The prince made me do it," answered Meschini in low tones. "He
promised me twenty thousand scudi for the work."
"To be paid--when? Tell all."
"To be paid in cash the day the verdict was given."
"You came to get your money here?"
"I came here. He denied having promised anything definite. I grew
angry. I killed him." A violent shudder shook his frame from head to
foot.
"You strangled him with a pocket handkerchief?"
"It was Donna Faustina's?"
"The prince threw it on the ground after he had struck her. I saw the
quarrel. I was waiting for my money. I watched them through the door."
"You know that you are to die. Where are the deeds you stole when you
forged the others?"
"I told you--in the cupboard in my room. Here is the key. Only--for
God's sake---"
He was beginning to break down again. Perhaps, by the habit of the past
days he felt the need for drink even in that supreme moment, for his
hand sought his pocket as he sat. Instead of the bottle he felt the
cold steel barrel of the revolver, which he had forgotten. San Giacinto
looked towards the notary.
"Is this a full confession, sufficient to commit this man to trial?" he
asked. But before the notary could answer, Meschini's voice sounded
through the room, not weak and broken, but loud and clear.
"It is! It is!" he cried in sudden and wild excitement. "I have told
all. The deeds will speak for themselves. Ah! you would have done
better to leave me amongst my books!" He turned to San Giacinto. "You
will never be Prince Saracinesca. But I shall escape you. You shall not
give me a slow death--you shall not, I say--"
San Giacinto made a step towards him. The proximity of the man who had
inspired him with such abject terror put an end to his hesitation.
"You shall not!" he almost screamed. "But my blood is on your head--Ah!"
Three deafening reports shook the air in rapid succession, and all that
was left of Arnoldo Meschini lay in a shapeless heap upon the floor.
While a man might have counted a score there was silence in the room.
Then San Giacinto came forward and bent over the body, while the
notaries and their clerks cowered in a corner. Saracinesca and Giovanni
stood together, grave and silent, as brave men are when they have seen
a horrible sight and can do nothing. Meschini was quite dead. When San
Giacinto had assured himself of the fact, he looked up. All the fierce
rage had vanished from his face.
"He is dead," he said quietly. "You all saw it. You will have to give
your evidence in half an hour when the police come. Be good enough to
open the door."
He took up the body in his arms carefully, but with an ease that amazed
those who watched him. Giovanni held the door open, and San Giacinto
deposited his burden gently upon the pavement of the corridor. Then he
turned back and re-entered the room. The door of the study closed for
ever on Arnoldo Meschini.
In the dead silence that followed, San Giacinto approached the table
upon which the deed lay, still waiting to be witnessed. He took it in
his hand and turned to Saracinesca. There was no need for him to
exculpate himself from any charge of complicity in the abominable fraud
which Montevarchi had prepared before he died. Not one of the men
present even thought of suspecting him. Even if they had, it was clear
that he would not have brought Meschini to confess before them a
robbery in which he had taken part. But there was that in his brave
eyes that told his innocence better than any evidence or argument could
have proclaimed it. He held out the document to Saracinesca.
"Would you like to keep it as a memento?" he asked. "Or shall I destroy
it before you?"
His voice never quavered, his face was not discomposed. Giovanni, the
noble-hearted gentleman, wondered whether he himself could have borne
such a blow so bravely as this innkeeper cousin of his. Hopes, such as
few men can even aspire to entertain, had been suddenly extinguished. A
future of power and wealth and honour, the highest almost that his
country could give any man, had been in a moment dashed to pieces
before his eyes. Dreams, in which the most indifferent would see the
prospect of enormous satisfaction, had vanished into nothing during the
last ten minutes, almost at the instant when they were to be realised.
And yet the man who had hoped such hopes, who had looked forward to
such a future, whose mind must have revelled many a time in the visions
that were already becoming realities--that man stood before them all,
outwardly unmoved, and proposing to his cousin that he should keep as a
remembrance the words that told of his own terrible disappointment. He
was indeed the calmest of those present.
"Shall I tear it to pieces?" he asked again, holding the document
between his fingers. Then the old prince spoke.
"Do what you will with it," he answered. "But give me your hand. You
are a braver man than I."
The two men looked into each other's eyes as their hands met.
"It shall not be the last deed between us," said Saracinesca. "There
shall be another. Whatever may be the truth about that villain's work
you shall have your share--"
"A few hours ago, you would not take yours," answered San Giacinto
quietly. "Must I repeat your own words?"
"Well, well--we will talk of that. This has been a terrible morning's
work, and we must do other things before we go to business again. That
poor man's body is outside the door. We had better attend to that
matter first, and send for the police. Giovanni, my boy, will you tell
Corona? I believe she is still in the house."
Giovanni needed no urging to go upon his errand. He entered the
drawing-room where Corona was still sitting beside Faustina upon the
sofa. His face must have been pale, for Corona looked at him with a
startled expression.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
"Something very unpleasant has occurred," he answered, looking at
Faustina. "Meschini, the librarian, has just died very suddenly in the
study where we were."
"Meschini?" cried Faustina in surprise and with some anxiety.
"Yes. Are you nervous, Donna Faustina? May I tell you something very
startling?" It was a man's question.
"Yes--what is it?" she asked quickly.
"Meschini confessed before us all that it was he who was the cause--in
fact that he had murdered your father. Before any one could stop him,
he had shot himself. It is very dreadful."
With a low cry that was more expressive of amazement than of horror,
Faustina sank into a chair. In his anxiety to tell his wife the whole
truth Giovanni forgot her at once. As soon as he began to speak,
however, Corona led him away to the window where they had stood
together a few hours earlier.
"Corona--what I told her is not all. There is something else. Meschini
had forged the papers which gave the property to San Giacinto.
Montevarchi had promised him twenty thousand scudi for the job. It was
because he would not pay the money that Meschini killed him. Do you
understand?"
"You will have everything after all?"
"Everything--but we must give San Giacinto a share. He has behaved like
a hero. He found it all out and made Meschini confess. When he knew the
truth he did not move a muscle of his face, but offered my father the
deed he had just signed as a memento of the occasion."
"Then he will not take anything, any more than you would, or your
father. Is it quite sure, Giovanni? Is there no possible mistake?"
"No. It is absolutely certain. The original documents are in this
house."
"I am glad then, for you, dear," answered Corona. "It would have been
very hard for you to bear--"
"After this morning? After the other day in Holy Office?" asked
Giovanni, looking deep into her splendid eyes. "Can anything be hard to
bear if you love me, darling?"
"Oh my beloved! I wanted to hear you say it!" Her head sank upon his
shoulder, as though she had found that perfect rest for which she had
once so longed.
Here ends the second act in the history of the Saracinesca. To trace
their story further would be to enter upon an entirely different series
of events, less unusual perhaps in themselves, but possibly worthy of
description as embracing that period during which Rome and the Romans
began to be transformed and modernised. In the occurrences that
followed, both political and social, the Saracinesca bore a part, in
that blaze of gaiety which for many reasons developed during the winter
of the Oecumenical Council, in the fall of the temporal power, in the
social confusion that succeeded that long-expected catastrophe, and
which led by rapid degrees to the present state of things. If there are
any left who still feel an interest in Giovanni and Corona, the
historian may once more resume his task and set forth in succession the
circumstances through which they have passed since that memorable
morning they spent at the Palazzo Montevarchi. They themselves are
facts, and, as such, are a part of the century in which we live;
whether they are interesting facts or not, is for others to judge, and
if the verdict denounces them as flat, unprofitable and altogether
dull, it is not their fault; the blame must be imputed to him who,
knowing them well, has failed in an honest attempt to show them as they
are.
THE END.