VAN DE WERVE'S RECEPTION--SIMON TURCHI'S JEALOUSY AND HATRED.
Mr. Van de Werve, whose large fortune justified a lavish expenditure, was
accustomed to receive at his residence every month the principal gentlemen
of Antwerp, strangers as well as citizens. His love for art and science
induced him to bring together the best artists and the most noted literary
men of the day with the high-born, wealthy, and influential members of
society at Antwerp; and his house had become the rendezvous of all that
was excellent and celebrated in the city.
Nearly the whole of the anterior part of the house was occupied by a vast
hall, called the _Ancestral Hall_, because it was decorated by numberless
souvenirs of his illustrious family. The walls, for a certain distance
were sculptured in oak wood, so artistically designed, and so delicately
wrought, that at the first glance it looked like embroidery in various
colors. To produce this effect, the natural brown of the oak had been left
in some places. All the rest shone with gold and silver, which was
relieved by a beautiful scarlet, brilliant yellow, and the softest
sky-blue. The many small figures scattered over the ornaments were highly
gilded. From the wooden wainscot arose slight pillars, which, uniting in
the Gothic style, supported the heavy beams of the ceiling. Six of these
beams were visible: all were covered with highly colored sculptures. Their
decorations harmonized with, those of the wainscot, and seemed an
expansion of it, as though the architect wished the exquisite ornaments of
the beams of the ceiling to be considered a luxuriant verdure, springing
from trunks rooted in the oaken wainscot.
The escutcheon of the Van de Werve family, together with the families
allied to them, was artistically sculptured in the wood. The emblems and
devices were in profusion: lions, wild boars, eagles, ermines, bands and
crosses of gold, silver, green, and blue quartz, so numerous and
sparkling, that when the noonday sun penetrated into the hall, the eye
could with difficulty bear the dazzling magnificence.
The armorial bearings of the Van de Werves, Lords of Schilde, painted in
larger proportions than the others, were at the extremity of the hall.
They consisted of a black boar on a field of gold, quartered by three
chevrons of silver on black, surmounted by a helmet ornamented by
mantlings of black and gold, and above this was a boar's head.
Around these family arms shone a large number of escutcheons of smaller
size; among others, the coat of arms of the Wyneghem, the Van Immerseel,
the Van Wilre, the Van Mildert, the Van Coolput, the Van Bruloch, and the
Van Zymaer, families the most nearly related to that of Van de Werve.
Above the wainscot, within the niches formed by the pillars, hung the
portraits of some of the most illustrious ancestors of William Van de
Werve, as well as his own, in which he was represented as captain of a
German company in the service of Charles V.
The portraits did not occupy all the panels formed in the richly carved
oak. In a large number appeared valuable paintings from the pencil of the
most celebrated masters of Netherlands. The eye rested on the creations of
the immortal brothers Van Eyck, the touching Quintin Massys, the
intellectual Roger Van der Weydens, the spiritual Jerome Bosch, the
laborious Lucas de Leyde, and others whose names were favorably mentioned
in the world of art.
In a corner of the room, beside the fireplace, stood a piano richly
enamelled in woods of different colors, and upon it lay two lutes and a
violin--a proof that the charming art of music was cultivated by the
family of Mr. Van de Werve.
From the ceiling were suspended six gilded chandeliers; on the mantelpiece
were two candelabras; along the walls, where the pillars formed
projections, numerous sconces were fastened; and when Mr. Van de Werve
received his friends in the evening, the reflection of the numberless wax
candles from the many gold and silver ornaments gave a princely air to the
hall.
Three days after the attempted assassination of Geronimo by the ruffian
Bufferio, Mr. Van de Werve was to entertain his friends in the evening, it
being the time appointed for their reunion. Although he had been deeply
moved by the murderous assault, and his daughter Mary had scarcely
recovered from the shock, he had not withdrawn the invitations, hoping
that the social gathering might help to dissipate painful thoughts.
At the appointed hour the dwelling of Mr. Van de Werve was in a blaze of
light. The large double door was thrown open, and in the vast hall were
crowds of domestics, the attendants of the guests who had already arrived.
The large parlor was filled with persons of different conditions and ages.
There were, however, only men present, for this evening was by a previous
arrangement to be devoted to artists, men of letters, and notable men of
commerce.
The first salutations had been exchanged among the guests of Mr. Van de
Werve; they had separated according to their pleasure in different groups,
and were engaged in cordial and familiar conversation.
Five or six of the more aged were seated near a table examining some new
works which excited their admiration; others, whose more simple attire
proclaimed them to be artists, were showing each other their designs;
another party, evidently formed of young noblemen, surrounded Geronimo,
and were asking particulars of the recent attempt upon his life.
At the end of the room, not far from the fireplace, were collected the
foreigners who were engaged in commerce at Antwerp. Although they had
assembled for amusement, they were conversing, through habit, upon the
expected arrival of vessels, and the price of gold and different kinds of
merchandise. Among these foreigners was to be seen every description of
costume, and every variety of tongue could be heard. The Spaniard found
himself beside a native of Lucca, the Portuguese near the Florentine, the
English with the Genoese, the German next to the Venetian; and, as on
Change at Antwerp, they found means to understand each other.
Mr. Van de Werve had at first remained near the door in order to welcome
his guests as they entered; but supposing that the greater part of those
invited had arrived, he left this place and was walking from group to
group, joining in conversation for a few moments, and saying some pleasant
words to each.
The old Deodati had seated himself in an arm-chair apart. So many had
welcomed him on his arrival at Antwerp, and he had been the object of so
much polite attention, that, being fatigued from standing and talking, he
was now seeking some repose.
By his side was Simon Turchi, conversing familiarly and in a low tone with
the old man. The hypocrite feigned an extraordinary affection for the
venerable nobleman, and flattered him by every expression of respect and
esteem. They had already spoken of the attempted assassination, and Simon
Turchi had expressed his astonishment, for he did not believe that
Geronimo had an enemy in the world. It was quite likely that Bufferio had
made a mistake as to the individual, a thing which might easily have
happened in so dark a night.
While Simon Turchi, with apparent calmness, thus conversed with the old
gentleman, he was evidently meditating some wicked design; for while
talking, his eyes incessantly wandered to Geronimo, and he endeavored to
divine from his countenance the subject of his conversation. He did not
for one instant lose sight of Mary's betrothed.
After speaking of the assassination, the old Deodati glanced around the
room upon the different groups of guests, and he asked Turchi:
"Who is the gentleman in purple velvet, who is the object of such marked
respect from the merchants around him? I do not mean the tall old man, I
am acquainted with him, he is the rich Fugger of Augsburg; I am speaking
of the one who stands beside him."
"He is a banker, signor," replied Simon Turchi. "He is very rich, and his
name is Lazarus Tucher. The gentleman before him is the head of the house
of the Hochstetter. The gentlemen conversing with him belong to the
distinguished commercial houses of the Gigli, the Spignoli, and the
Gualterotti. A little apart, and behind them, is Don Pezoa, the
superintendent of the king of Portugal; he is speaking with Diégo d'Aro,
and Antonio de Vaglio, superintendents from Spain. The gentlemen near them
are Italian and Portuguese merchants, whose names I could tell you, for I
know them all, but such details would not interest you."
"I am indebted to you for your kindness, Signor Turchi," replied Deodati.
"My nephew, Geronimo, would give me all this information, but he is
surrounded by his young friends, and as he sees me with you, he is
undoubtedly convinced that I could not be in better or more agreeable
company. Have the kindness to tell me the name of the fine-looking old man
seated near the table, and to give me some information regarding those who
are listening to him with so much attention."
"Around the table, signor, are the most learned men of Netherlands. That
gray-headed orator is the old Graphæus, secretary of the city of Antwerp,
and the author of several well written Latin works. The young man, on
whose shoulder he leans, is his son, Alexander, who is also very learned.
Before him is seated Abraham Ortelius, the great geographer, who is
regarded as the Ptolemy of his age. Beside Ortelius is his friend and
fellow-laborer Gerard, also a learned geographer, and one of the
luminaries of the day. The only one whose dress indicates his Italian
birth is Louis Guicciardini, a Florentine gentleman, who is here for the
purpose of collecting materials for an extensive work on the Low
Countries, and particularly on the powerful commercial city of Antwerp.
The gentleman plainly dressed, with a black beard, holding a book in his
hand, is Christopher Plantin; he is engaged in establishing at Antwerp a
printing-press of great importance. Its dimensions are so large that it
will occupy the ground on which several spacious houses now stand;
hundreds of workmen will be employed all day in composing, correcting, and
printing books in every civilized tongue. You must not fail, signor, to
visit the building; even in its unfinished state it will cause you
astonishment."
"The Netherlands is a favored country," said the old Deodati. "If the
climate is not as mild as in our own beautiful Italy, the men are bold,
active, intelligent, industrious, and learned, and they possess all the
qualifications requisite for the material prosperity and moral progress of
a nation. I am surprised to see you, who are a foreigner, as well
acquainted with the inhabitants as a native."
"I have lived here many years," replied Turchi. "These gentlemen are
frequent visitors at the house of Mr. Van de Werve, and I have seen them
so often, that I know them as old friends. Look at the corner near the
piano, where those collected together laugh merrily, jest, and chat
socially. You may easily recognize them by their light playful manners as
artists."
"Yes. Is not that handsome man with noble features Frans Floris, the
Flemish Raphael?"
"Yes; he was presented to you yesterday by Mr. Van de Werve, and you may
remember how enthusiastically he eulogized Italian art."
"Near him is a singular-looking person; his very attitude is amusing, and
his gestures force one to laugh."
"He is Peter Breughel, a humorist, who so designs his pictures that they
seem painted only by way of jest. He is, however, in good repute as an
artist. I saw recently one of his pictures in which he represents the
Saviour carrying his cross to Calvary. In this he represents pilgrims with
their staves, Spanish soldiers in doublets, monks and nuns; there is even
a statue of the Blessed Virgin suspended on a tree, and that at a time
when there was no Christianity, no Saint James of Compostella, neither
convents nor Spaniards."
"That is indeed singular," said Deodati, smiling. "It seems to me that
such conceits do but very little honor to the artist. Is it a custom among
other artists in the Netherlands to sport thus with holy things?"
"No; Signor Breughel is an exception. The other gentlemen in company with
the Flemish Raphael are more serious men. Michael Coxie, whom you may
distinguish by the gray doublet, excels in his portraits of women. The
handsome young man standing behind him is Martin de Vos, a pupil of
Floris; he evinces a high order of talent and gives promise of great
perfection in his art. The others, as well as I can recognize them at this
distance, are Lambert Van Noord, Egide Mostaert, William Key, Bernard de
Rycke, and the two brothers Henry and Martin Van Cleef, all celebrated
historical, fancy, or portrait painters. Near them is Master Grimmer, a
famous landscape-painter; and the gentleman now speaking is a certain Ack
of Antwerp, who has painted the large glass windows of the church of Saint
Gudula at Brussels. The old man sitting apart near the piano is Christian;
he has marvellous skill in playing on many instruments, but he excels most
on the violin. You will probably hear him this evening."
Simon Turchi continued to converse familiarly with the Signor Deodati, who
was charmed with his intelligence, but still more with the kind
consideration which made him refrain from joining in the general
conversation in order to entertain an old man.
Geronimo had several times approached his uncle, but each time the latter
had playfully sent him away, telling him that the agreeable company of the
Signor Turchi sufficed for him, and that he preferred a quiet
conversation.
In the meantime the conversation among the guests had become more general.
Noblemen and bankers, merchants and literary men, manufacturers and
artists, were mingling with each other; rank and condition were
disregarded, and the animated conversation of the company resounded
through the hall like the humming of a swarm of bees.
At this moment the servants entered, bringing silver waiters on which were
wines of every description, pastry, cakes, rare fruits, and other
refreshments.
They passed through the room offering the wines to the guests.
"Gentlemen, a glass of Malmsey, Rhenish wine, claret, sherry, Muscatel?"
Whilst these delicious drinks and delicacies were thus distributed,
Geronimo never lost sight of Mr. Van de Werve, but observed him with an
eye full of hope and expectation.
When at last he saw Mr. Van de Werve leave the room, a bright smile
illumined his face. Geronimo knew that Mr. Van de Werve sometimes
gratified his friends and acquaintances by allowing his beautiful daughter
to be present at their evening reunion for about an hour, and he had been
impatiently awaiting the moment when the young girl would appear.
Simon Turchi, although apparently so unmoved, had constantly watched
Mary's betrothed, noticed the radiant expression of his countenance, and
understood the cause.
Mary was coming! Perhaps the whole company would know that his suit had
been rejected, and that Geronimo had succeeded where the powerful
administrator of the house of Buonvisi had failed!
This thought deeply wounded his pride. He scowled at Geronimo, who was
looking in another direction. Rage and jealousy goaded him almost to
madness; he felt that the scar on his face, by its deepening hue, would
betray his emotion, and to conceal it he covered his eyes with his hand.
Deodati asked him with interest:
"What is the matter, Signor Turchi? Are you ill?"
"The heat is intolerable," said Simon, endeavoring to master his feelings.
"Heat?" murmured Deodati; "it does not seem to me very warm. Shall I
accompany you for a few moments to the garden, signor?"
But Turchi raised his head, and smiling in an unconcerned manner, said:
"Many thanks, signor, for your kindness. I feel much better. I had been
looking too long at the large lustre, and its brilliant light made me
dizzy. But let us rise, signor, there is the beautiful Mary, _la bionda
maraviglia_!"
Mr. Van de Werve appeared at this moment at the door, and introduced his
beloved child. A murmur of admiration ran through the assembly, and room
was made for the father and daughter.
The beauty of Mary surpassed all expectation. Her dress consisted of a
flowing robe of silver-colored satin, with no other ornament than a girdle
of gold thread. Her own blonde hair was arranged around her head in the
form of a crown, in the centre of which were placed some white flowers
fastened by choice pearls. But the admiration of the spectators was
excited by her large blue eyes, her brilliant complexion, the dignified
sweetness of her expression, the gentle, innocent, modest smile which
mirrored on her face the peace and joy of her soul.
Geronimo had never before seen Mary dressed in this style. On the
contrary, she generally wore dark or unobtrusive colors. Decked as she now
was in pure white, she had the appearance of a bride. It was, of course,
by her father's request; but what did it mean? Did he intend by this to
make it known that Mary was betrothed, and would soon be wedded? Such
thoughts as these agitated Geronimo as the young girl accompanied her
father into the room.
The old Deodati rose and advanced to meet her. Simon Turchi took advantage
of this movement to retire a short distance; for, as his eye fell on the
beautiful girl, rage filled his heart as he reflected that this noble and
pure woman would have been his wife had not Geronimo blasted the happiness
of his life.
The lightning-like glance of hate and envy which he cast upon Geronimo was
a sinister menace of death. Happily for him, all eyes were turned towards
the young girl, otherwise many a one might have read the dark soul of
Simon Turchi and discovered the horrible design he had conceived.
Mr. Van de Werve introduced his daughter to his guests. All expressed in
courteous terms their admiration and their pleasure in her society.
The noble young girl received the felicitations and compliments addressed
to her with a gentle and dignified self-possession. There were in her
manner and tone of voice a rare modesty and reserve, and at the same time
an exquisite politeness. Still more astonishing was her rich and varied
knowledge. Whether conversing with a Spaniard, Frenchman, Italian, or
German, she spoke to each in his own tongue; but the beautiful Italian
language assumed additional sweetness on her lips.
When presented to the old Deodati, she took both his hands and spoke to
him so tenderly and affectionately that, overcome by emotion, he could
only say a few grateful words in acknowledgment.
Passing by Simon Turchi, she said cheerfully:
"God be praised, Signor Turchi, that your health is so soon restored! I am
happy to see you here this evening. I am sincerely grateful to you,
signor, for the friendship you manifest to the nephew of Signor Deodati.
You have a good and generous heart, and I thank God for having given so
devoted a friend to Geronimo and his uncle!"
The gentle words of the young girl were intolerable torture to Turchi; the
wound on his face, betraying his emotion, became of a deep-red color. And
yet it was absolutely necessary for him to appear calm, and to reply
cordially to the kind salutation of the young girl; for there were at
least twenty persons near him and within hearing of what passed.
By a powerful effort he mastered his emotion, referring it to the
impression made upon him by her appearance. He spoke also of sacrifices,
which, even when voluntarily made, painfully wound the heart; of a
self-abnegation which could find its consolation in the happiness of a
friend, but which failed not to leave a sting in the soul that had
cherished fallacious hopes.
Mary understood him, and was grateful for his kindness.
"Thanks, thanks, signor," she said, warmly, as she passed on to salute
other guests.
When Mary approached the piano, and addressed a few kind words to Master
Christian, many Italian gentlemen begged her to favor them with a
_canzone_.
With her father's permission, the young girl consented to gratify the
guests. She hesitated awhile as to the language in which to sing, and was
turning over the leaves of a book handed her by Master Christian. The old
Deodati expressed a wish to hear a song in the language of the Low
Countries, and begging pardon of the Italian gentlemen, Mary said she
would sing a _Kyrie Eleison_ in her maternal tongue.
Master Christian seated himself at the piano, to accompany her, and
commenced a prelude.
The first notes of the young girl were like a gentle murmur. By degrees
her voice became firmer and stronger, until at the end of each strophe the
word _eleïson_ rose like a sonorous hymn to heaven.
The measure was remarkably slow, simple, and full of a tranquil melody.
Mary evidently felt the peculiar character of this chant, for instead of
endeavoring to add to the effect, she softened still more her singularly
sweet voice, and let the words drop slowly from her lips, as if the
songstress herself were ravished in contemplation and was listening to
celestial music.
At first the Italian gentlemen exchanged glances, as if to express the
thought that this chant could not compare with the brilliant lively style
of the Italian music. But this unfavorable opinion was not of long
duration. They, like all others, soon yielded to the irresistible
fascination of Mary's exquisite voice. They listened with such rapt
attention that not the slightest movement was made in the room, and one
might have heard the murmur of the leaves in the garden as they were
gently stirred by the breeze of May.
Mary had concluded her song and lifted her eyes to heaven with an
expression of adoration. All who gazed upon her felt as though they were
contemplating an angel before the throne of God. Even Simon Turchi was
subdued by admiration, and he even momentarily lost sight of the hatred
and jealousy which lacerated his heart.
Mary thus sang:
Kyrie! Lo, our God comes,
Mankind to save from ill and bless:
What grateful joy should break our gloom
And fill our hearts with happiness!
Kyrie eleison!--God is born!
A virgin mother gives him birth;
And sin's dark bonds asunder torn,
Sweet heaven again inclines to earth.
Kyrie!--hear!--the sacred font
Pours forth its saving waters free--
And Thou impressest on our front
The sign that drives our foes away.
Christe!--anointed victim!--Thou,
Who in thy death bestowest life--
The healing remedy for woe--
Ah! earth with many a woe is rife.
Christe eleison!--brother dear--
Our liberator from all ill--
Strong in Thy virtue, free from fear,
And be our help to virtue still.
Christe eleison! God and man--
Our only consolation here--
Oh! do not leave us 'neath the ban
Of sorrow perilous and drear.
Oh! Kyrie, Father--Kyrie Son--
Kyrie Spirit--we adore
The Triune God--Thee, only One!
Grant we may praise Thee evermore!
Silence reigned in the room some moments after the last sound had died
away, and then arose a murmur of admiration, and the young girl was
overwhelmed with felicitations.
Whilst being thus complimented, Mary noticed Geronimo at a little distance
from her. Desirous, perhaps, of escaping the praises lavished upon her,
or, it may be, yielding to a real desire, she approached the young man,
drew him towards the piano, and insisted upon his singing an Italian aria.
Geronimo at first refused, but his uncle requested him to yield to the
entreaties of the young girl. Taking up a lute, he hastily tuned it, and
sang the first word of the aria _Italia!_ in such a tone of enthusiasm
that it struck a responsive chord in every Italian heart. The notes fell
from his lips like a shower of brilliant stars; his bosom heaved, his eyes
sparkled, and his rich tenor voice filling the hall produced an
indescribable effect upon the auditors. As his song proceeded, it seemed
to gain in expression and vigor, and as he repeated the refrain _Mia bella
Italia!_ for the last time, his compatriots were so carried away by their
enthusiasm that, forgetful of decorum, all, even the most aged, waved
their caps, exclaiming:
"_Italia! Italia!_"
Tears stood in the eyes of many.
Geronimo was complimented by all present. His uncle called him his beloved
son, Mary spoke to him in the most flattering manner, and Mr. Van de Werve
shook hands with him cordially.
As to Simon Turchi, he was overpowered; all he had just seen and heard was
such a martyrdom; jealousy so gnawed his heart that he sank deeper and
deeper into the abyss of hatred and vengeance. He stood a few steps from
Geronimo, his eyes downcast, and trembling with emotion.
No one noticed him. Had he attracted attention, his friends would have
supposed that, like the other Italians, he had been moved by the chant of
his compatriot.
Turchi soon roused himself. Like a man who has taken a sudden resolution,
he walked up to Geronimo, smiled pleasantly, and threw his arms around his
neck.
"Thanks, thanks, Geronimo!" he exclaimed. "You have made me truly happy by
giving me additional cause to be proud of my country."
While embracing him, he also whispered:
"Geronimo, I wish to speak privately to you this evening. I will go to the
garden presently; try to follow me; you will be pleased."
Having said these words, he fell back as if to make way for Mr. Fugger,
the rich banker, who wished to offer his congratulations.
The servants reappeared in the hall with wines and various delicacies.
Master Christian was tuning his violin. The guests, informed that this
excellent artist was about to entertain them with his wonderful skill,
drew near the piano.
Geronimo, perplexed by the words of Simon Turchi, watched his friend and
sought an opportunity to speak to him alone. He saw him leave the room,
and as the entrance of the servants with refreshments, and the desire of
the guests to approach Master Christian, had caused a stir among the
company, the young man was enabled to rejoin Simon in the garden.
The garden, situated in the rear of the house, although not large, was
crossed by several winding paths, and along the wall were wide-spreading
trees and blocks of verdure.
When Geronimo entered the garden, he perceived several persons who had
left the heated apartment to enjoy the fresh air, and who were walking in
different directions.
As he was seeking in the dim light to distinguish Simon Turchi, the latter
approached from an arbor, took his arm and led him in silence to a retired
part of the garden, where he seated himself on a bench, and said in low
tone:
"Sit down, Geronimo! I have good news for you."
"Ah! have you succeeded in obtaining the money?"
"I have been successful. But come nearer! no one must overhear us. A
foreign merchant, whom I saved two years ago from dishonor and ruin, at
the risk of my own destruction, will furnish me with the means of
returning you the ten thousand crowns."
"God be praised!" said Geronimo, with a sigh of relief. "He will not long
delay, I hope, to fulfil his generous designs."
"I will pay you to-morrow what I owe you."
"To-morrow? how fortunate!"
"But, Geronimo, I cannot bring you the money; you must come for it
yourself."
"It would be a trifle were I obliged to go to Cologne."
"You need not go so far. Only go to my country-seat near the hospital.
Silence! some one approaches!"
After a moment's silence, Turchi resumed:
"He has passed. You must know, Geronimo, that the foreign merchant desires
his presence in Antwerp to remain unknown, and I have promised to keep him
concealed in my garden for several days.[17] He wishes to assist me, but
he is over-prudent and distrustful. I will sign the receipt for the sum he
lends me. He requires, for greater security, that you sign it also."
"What mystery is this?" said the young man. "I must sign with you for
security! Who is this merchant? Is he a fugitive from justice?"
"What has that to do with the affair? It is not my secret, Geronimo, and I
promised to conceal his name. If you be saved from your present
embarrassment, will you not have attained your object? It is true that you
will be my security, but the ten thousand crowns will be in the money
vault, and your uncle will not find one florin missing. Your only danger
would arise from an inability on my part to meet the note. But you need
fear nothing in that respect. In a few months my resources will be
abundant. I take this step only to save you from a present imminent
danger. You must know, Geronimo, that I would prefer to have you alone for
my creditor."
"Certainly, Simon, and I am most grateful to you for your kindness. Will
this merchant give me the amount in coin?"
"No, but in bills of exchange on Milan, Florence, and Lucca."
"Good and reliable bills, Simon?"
"You shall be the judge before accepting them. Fear nothing, you shall be
fully satisfied."
"Well, I will go. After Change, between five and six o'clock, will that
answer?"
"It makes no difference to me, provided I know the hour beforehand."
"Expect me, then, to-morrow, between five and six o'clock. But let us
return to the house. Our long absence might cause remark."
Simon Turchi arose, but remained standing in the same spot, and said:
"Geronimo, I have promised the merchant that none but yourself shall know
of his presence in Antwerp. Say nothing, therefore, to your uncle, to
Mary, nor to any one else. The least indiscretion might disarrange our
plans, and be perilous to the stranger. Come alone, without any
attendant."
"I will do as you direct," said Geronimo, "but it will be impossible for
me to remain until dark. My uncle will be seriously displeased if I go out
again at night without a sufficient guard."
"I will not detain you over half an hour."
At that moment a servant from the house entered the garden looking for
Geronimo.
"Signor Geronimo," he said, "Mr. Van de Werve is inquiring for you, as
Miss Van de Werve is about to retire from the company, and Signor Deodati
wishes to return home. He is awaiting you."
The two gentlemen followed the servant; on the way, Turchi again said in a
low voice:
"To-morrow, between the hours of five and six."
The old Deodati was already at the door with five or six attendants. He
was displeased by the long absence of his nephew, and was about to
remonstrate with him. But, by Turchi's explanation, this want of attention
was pardoned, and he was even permitted to bid a hasty adieu to Mary and
her father.
He returned almost immediately, and offering his arm to his uncle, he
left Mr. Van de Werve's house.
As he moved on, Simon Turchi glanced at him entreatingly, as if to insist
upon secrecy.