CHAPTER XXVI.
The amount of work which Arnoldo Meschini did in the twenty-four hoursof the day depended almost entirely upon his inclinations. The libraryhad always been open to the public once a week, on Mondays, and onthose occasions the librarian was obliged to be present. The rest ofhis time was supposed to be devoted to the incessant labour connectedwith so important a collection of books, and, on the whole, he had donefar more than was expected of him. Prince Montevarchi had neverproposed to give him an assistant, and he would have rejected any suchoffer, since the presence of another person would have made it almostimpossible for him to carry on his business of forging ancientmanuscripts. The manual labour of his illicit craft was of courseperformed in his own room, but a second librarian could not have failedto discover that there was something wrong. Night after night hecarried the precious manuscripts to his chamber, bringing them back andrestoring them to their places every morning. During the day he studiedattentively what he afterwards executed in the quiet hours when hecould be alone. Of the household none but the prince himself ever cameto the library, no other member of the family cared for the books orknew anything about them. His employer being dead, Meschini waspractically master of all the shelves contained. No one disturbed him,no one asked what he was doing. His salary would be paid regularly bythe steward, and he would in all probability be left to vegetateunheeded for the rest of his natural lifetime. When he died some oneelse would be engaged in his place. In the ordinary course of events noother future would have been open to him.
He awoke very late in the morning on the day after the murder, and layfor some time wondering why he was so very uncomfortable, why his headhurt him, why his vision was indistinct, why he could remember nothinghe had done before going to bed. The enormous quantity of liquor he haddrunk had temporarily destroyed his faculties, which were not hardenedby the habitual use of alcohol. He turned his head uneasily upon thepillow and saw the bottles on the table, the candle burnt down in thebrass candlestick and the general disorder in the room. He glanced athis own body and saw that he was lying dressed upon his bed. Then thewhole truth flashed upon his mind with appalling vividness. A shockwent through his system as though some one had struck him violently onthe back of the head, while the light in the room was momentarilybroken into flashes that pained his eyes. He got upon his feet withdifficulty, and steadied himself by the bed-post, hardly able to standalone.
He had murdered his master. The first moment in which he realised thefact was the most horrible he remembered to have passed. He had killedthe prince and could recall nothing, or next to nothing, that hadoccurred since the deed. Almost before he knew what he was doing he hadlocked his door with a double turn of the key and was pushing thefurniture against it, the table, the chairs, everything that he couldmove. It seemed to him that he could already hear upon the windingstair the clank of the gens d'armes' sabres as they came to get him. Helooked wildly round the room to see whether there was anything thatcould lead to discovery. The unwonted exertion, however, had restoredthe circulation of his blood, and with it arose an indistinct memory ofthe sense of triumph he had felt when he had last entered the chamber.He asked himself how he could have rejoiced over the deed, unless hehad unconsciously taken steps for his own safety. The body must havebeen found long ago.
Very gradually there rose before him the vision of the scene in thestudy, when he had been summoned thither by the two servants, the deadprince stretched on the table, the pale faces, the prefect, DonnaFaustina's voice, a series of questions asked in a metallic, pitilesstone. He had not been drunk, therefore, when they had sent for him. Andyet, he knew that he had not been sober. In what state, then, had hefound himself? With a shudder, he remembered his terror in the library,his fright at the ghost which had turned out to be only his own coat,his visit to his room, and the first draught he had swallowed. Fromthat point onwards his memory grew less and less clear. He found thathe could not remember at all how he had come upstairs the last time.
One thing was evident, however. He had not been arrested, since hefound himself in his chamber unmolested. Who, then, had been taken inhis place? He was amazed to find that he did not know. Surely, at thefirst inquest, something must have been said which would have led tothe arrest of some one. The law never went away empty-handed. He rackedhis aching brain to bring back the incident, but it would not berecalled--for the excellent reason that he really knew nothing aboutthe matter. It was a relief at all events to find that he had actuallybeen examined with the rest and had not been suspected. Nevertheless,he had undoubtedly done the deed, of which the mere thought made himtremble in every joint. Or was it all a part of his drunken dreams? No,that, at least, could not be explained away. For a long time he moveduneasily from his barricade at the door to the window, from which hetried to see the street below. But his room was in the attic, and thebroad stone cornice of the palace cut off the view effectually. At lasthe began to pull the furniture away from the entrance, slowly at first,as he merely thought of its uselessness, then with feverish haste, ashe realised that the fact of his trying to entrench himself in hisquarters would seem suspicious. In a few seconds he had restoredeverything to its place. The brandy bottles disappeared into thecupboard in the wall; a bit of candle filled the empty candlestick. Hetore off his clothes and jumped into bed, tossing himself about to giveit the appearance of having been slept in. Then he got up again andproceeded to make his toilet. All his clothes were black, and he hadbut a slender choice. He understood vaguely, however, that there wouldbe a funeral or some sort of ceremony in which all the members of thehousehold would be expected to join, and he arrayed himself in the besthe had--a decent suit of broadcloth, a clean shirt, a black tie. Helooked at himself in the cracked mirror. His face was ghastly yellow,the whites of his eyes injected with blood, the veins at the templesswollen and congested. He was afraid that his appearance might exciteremark, though it was in reality not very much changed.
Then, as he thought of this, he realised that he was to meet a score ofpersons, some of whom would very probably look at him curiously. Hisnerves were in a shattered condition, he almost broke down at the mereidea of what he must face. What would become of him in the presence ofthe reality? And yet he had met the whole household bravely enough onthe very spot where he had done the murder on the previous evening. Hesat down, overpowered by the revival of his fear and horror. The roomswam around him and he grasped the edge of the table for support. Buthe could not stay there all day. Any reluctance to make his appearanceat such a time might be fatal. There was only one way to get thenecessary courage, and that was to drink again. He shrank from thethought. He had not acquired the habitual drunkard's certainty offinding nerve and boldness and steadiness of hand in the morningdraught, and the idea of tasting the liquor was loathsome to him in hisdisordered state. He rose to his feet and tried to act as though hewere in the midst of a crowd of persons. Ape-like, he grinned at thefurniture, walked about the room, spoke aloud, pretending that he wasmeeting real people, tried to frame sentences expressive of profoundgrief. He opened the door and made a pretence of greeting an imaginaryindividual. It was as though a stream of cold water had fallen upon hisneck. His knees knocked together, and he felt sick with fear. There wasevidently no use in attempting to go down without some stimulant.Almost sorrowfully he shut the door again, and took the bottle from itsplace. He took several small doses, patiently testing the effect untilhis hand was steady and warm.
Ten minutes later he was kneeling with many others before thecatafalque, beneath the great canopy of black. He was dazed by thelight of the great branches of candles, and confused by the subduedsound of whispering and of softly treading feet; but he knew that hisoutward demeanour was calm and collected, and that he exhibited nosigns of nervousness. San Giacinto was standing near one of the doors,having taken his turn with the sons of the dead man to remain in theroom. He watched the librarian and a rough sort of pity made itselffelt in his heart.
"Poor Meschini!" he thought.
"He has lost a friend. I daresay he ismore genuinely sorry than all the family put together, poor fellow!"
Arnoldo Meschini, kneeling before the body of the man he had murdered,with a brandy bottle in the pocket of his long coat, would have come toan evil end if the giant had guessed the truth. But he looked what hewas supposed to be, the humble, ill-paid, half-starved librarian,mourning the master he had faithfully served for thirty years. He knelta long time, his lips moving mechanically with the words of anoft-repeated prayer. In reality he was afraid to rise from his kneesalone, and was waiting until some of the others made the first move.But the rows of lacqueys, doubtless believing that the amount of theirfuture wages would largely depend upon the vigour of their presentmourning, did not seem inclined to desist from their orisons. ToMeschini the time was interminable, and his courage was beginning toooze away from him, as the sense of his position acquired a tormentingforce. He could have borne it well enough in a church, in the midst ofa vast congregation, he could have fought off his horror even here fora few minutes, but to sustain such a part for a quarter of an hourseemed almost impossible. He would have given his soul, which indeedwas just then of but small value, to take a sip of courage from thebottle, and his clasped fingers twitched nervously, longing to find theway to his pocket. He glanced along the line, measuring his position,to see whether there was a possibility of drinking without beingobserved, but he saw that it would be madness to think of it, and beganrepeating his prayer with redoubled energy, in the hope of distractinghis mind. Then a horrible delusion began to take possession of him; hefancied that the dead man was beginning to turn his head slowly, almostimperceptibly, towards him. Those closed eyes would open and look himin the face, a supernatural voice would speak his name. As on theprevious afternoon the cold perspiration began to trickle from hisbrow. He was on the point of crying aloud with terror, when the mannext to him rose. In an instant he was on his feet. Both bent again,crossed themselves, and retired. Meschini stumbled and caught at hiscompanion's arm, but succeeded in gaining the door. As he passed out,his face was so discomposed that San Giacinto looked down upon him withincreased compassion, then followed him a few steps and laid his handon his shoulder. The librarian started violently and stood still.
"He was a good friend to you, Signor Meschini," said the big mankindly. "But take heart, you shall not be forgotten."
The dreaded moment had come, and it had been very terrible, but SanGiacinto's tone was reassuring. He could not have suspected anything,though the servants said that he was an inscrutable man, profound inhis thoughts and fearful in his anger. He was the one of all the familywhom Meschini most feared.
"God have mercy on him!" whined the librarian, trembling to his feet."He was the best of men, and is no doubt in glory!"
"No doubt," replied San Giacinto drily. He entertained opinions of hisown upon the subject, and he did not like the man's tone. "No doubt,"he repeated. "We will try and fulfil his wishes with regard to you."
"Grazie, Eccelenza!" said Meschini with great humility, making hornswith his fingers behind his back to ward off the evil eye, and edgingaway in the direction of the grand staircase.
San Giacinto returned to the door and paid no more attention to him.Then Meschini almost ran down the stairs and did not slacken his speeduntil he found himself in the street. The cold air of the winter's dayrevived him, and he found himself walking rapidly in the direction ofthe Ponte Quattro Capi. He generally took that direction when he wentout without any especial object, for his friend Tiberio Colaisso, thepoor apothecary, had his shop upon the little island of SaintBartholomew, which is connected with the shores of the river by adouble bridge, whence the name, "the bridge of four heads."
Meschini paused and looked over the parapet at the yellow swirlingwater. The eddies seemed to take queer shapes and he watched them for along time. He had a splitting headache, of the kind which is made morepainful by looking at quickly moving objects, which, at the same time,exercise an irresistible fascination over the eye. Almost unconsciouslyhe compared his own life to the river--turbid, winding, destroying. Thesimile was incoherent, like most of his fancies on that day, but itserved to express a thought, and he began to feel an odd sympathy forthe muddy stream, such as perhaps no one had ever felt before him. Butas he looked he grew dizzy, and drew back from the parapet. There musthave been something strange in his face, for a man who was passinglooked at him curiously and asked whether he were ill. He shook hishead with a sickly smile and passed on.
The apothecary was standing idly at his door, waiting for a custom thatrarely came his way. He was a cadaverous man, about fifty years of age,with eyes of an uncertain colour set deep in his head. An ill-kept,grizzled beard descended upon his chest, and gave a certain wildness tohis appearance. A very shabby green smoking cap, trimmed with tarnishedsilver lace, was set far back upon his head, displaying a wrinkledforehead, much heightened by baldness, but of proportions that denoteda large and active brain. That he took snuff in great quantities wasapparent. Otherwise he was neither very dirty nor very clean, but histhumbs had that peculiar shape which seems to be the result ofconstantly rolling pills. Meschini stopped before him.
"Sor Arnoldo, good-day," said the chemist, scrutinising his friend'sface curiously.
"Good-day, Sor Tiberio," replied the librarian. "Will you let me comein for a little moment?" There seemed to be an attempt at a jest in thequestion, for the apothecary almost smiled.
"Padrone," he said, retiring backwards through the narrow door. "A gameof scopa to-day?"
"Have you the time to spare?" inquired the other, in a serious tone.They always maintained the myth that Tiberio Colaisso was a very busyman.
"To-day," answered the latter, without a smile, and emphasising theword as though it defined an exception, "to-day, I have nothing to do.Besides, it is early."
"We can play a hand and then we can dine at Cicco's."
"Being Friday in Advent, I had intended to fast," replied theapothecary, who had not a penny in his pocket "But since you are sogood as to invite me, I do not say no."
Meschini said nothing, for he understood the situation, which was by nomeans a novel one. His friend produced a pack of Italian cards, almostblack with age. He gave Meschini the only chair, and seated himselfupon a three-legged stool.
It was a dismal scene. The shop was like many of its kind in the poorerquarters of old Rome. There was room for the counter and for threepeople to stand before it when the door was shut. The floor was coveredwith a broken pavement of dingy bricks. As the two men began to play afine, drizzling rain wet the silent street outside, and the brickswithin at once exhibited an unctuous moisture. The sky had becomecloudy after the fine morning, and there was little light in the shop.Three of the walls were hidden by cases with glass doors, containing anassortment of majolica jars which would delight a modern amateur, butwhich looked dingy and mean in the poor shop. Here and there, betweenthem, stood bottles large and small, some broken and dusty, othersfilled with liquids and bearing paper labels, brown with age, the inkinscriptions fading into the dirty surface that surrounded them. Theonly things in the place which looked tolerably clean were the littlebrass scales and the white marble tablet for compounding solidmedicines.
The two men looked as though they belonged to the little room.Meschini's yellow complexion was as much in keeping with thesurroundings as the chemist's gray, colourless face. His bloodshot eyeswandered from the half-defaced cards to the objects in the shop, and hewas uncertain in his play. His companion looked at him as though hewere trying to solve some intricate problem that gave him trouble. Hehimself was a man who, like the librarian, had begun life underfavourable circumstances, had studied medicine and had practised it.But he had been unfortunate, and, though talented, did not possess thequalifications most necessary for his profession. He had busied himselfwith chemistry and had invented a universal panacea which had failed,and in which he had sunk most of his small capital. Disgusted with hisreverses he had gravitated slowly to his p
resent position. Finding himcareless and indifferent to their wants, his customers had droppedaway, one by one, until he earned barely enough to keep body and soultogether. Only the poorest class of people, emboldened by the meanaspect of his shop, came in to get a plaster, an ointment or a blackdraught, at the lowest possible prices. And yet, in certain branches,Tiberio Colaisso was a learned man. At all events he had proved himselfable to do all that Meschini asked of him. He was keen, too, in anindolent way, and a single glance had satisfied him that something veryunusual had happened to the librarian. He watched him patiently, hopingto find out the truth without questions. At the same time, the hope ofwinning a few coppers made him keep an eye on the game. To his surprisehe won easily, and he was further astonished when he saw that themiserly Meschini was not inclined to complain of his losses nor toaccuse him of cheating.
"You are not lucky to-day," he remarked at last, when his winningsamounted to a couple of pauls--a modern franc in all.
Meschini looked at him uneasily and wiped his brow, leaning back in therickety chair. His hands were trembling.
"No," he answered. "I am not quite myself to-day. The fact is that amost dreadful tragedy occurred in our house last night, the merethought of which gives me the fever. I am even obliged to take a littlestimulant from time to time."
So saying, he drew the bottle from his pocket and applied it to hislips. He had hoped that it would not be necessary, but he was unable todo without it very long, his nerves being broken down by the quantityhe had taken on the previous night. Colaisso looked on in silence, morepuzzled than ever. The librarian seemed to be revived by the dose, andspoke more cheerfully after it.
"A most terrible tragedy," he said. "The prince was murdered yesterdayafternoon. I could not speak of it to you at once."
"Murdered?" exclaimed the apothecary in amazement. "And by whom?"
"That is the mystery. He was found dead in his study. I will tell youall I know."
Meschini communicated the story to his friend in a disjointed fashion,interspersing his narrative with many comments intended to give himselfcourage to proceed. He told the tale with evident reluctance, but hecould not avoid the necessity. If Tiberio Colaisso read the account inthe paper that evening, as he undoubtedly would, he would wonder whyhis companion had not been the first to relate the catastrophe; andthis wonder might turn into a suspicion. It would have been better notto come to the apothecary's, but since he found himself there he couldnot escape from informing him of what had happened.
"It is very strange," said the chemist, when he had heard all. Meschinithought he detected a disagreeable look in his eyes.
"It is, indeed," he answered. "I am made ill by it. See how my handtrembles. I am cold and hot."
"You have been drinking too much," said Colaisso suddenly, and with acertain brutality that startled his friend. "You are not sober. Youmust have taken a great deal last night. A libation to the dead, Isuppose, in the manner of the ancients."
Meschini winced visibly and began to shuffle the cards, while heattempted to smile to hide his embarrassment.
"I was not well yesterday--at least--I do not know what was thematter--a headache, I think, nothing more. And then, this awfulcatastrophe--horrible! My nerves are unstrung. I can scarcely speak."
"You need sleep first, and then a tonic," said the apothecary in abusiness-like tone.
"I slept until late this morning. It did me no good. I am half deadmyself. Yes, if I could sleep again it might do me good."
"Go home and go to bed. If I were in your place I would not drink anymore of that liquor. It will only make you worse."
"Give me something to make me sleep. I will take it."
The apothecary looked long at him and seemed to be weighing somethingin his judgment. An evil thought crossed his mind. He was very poor. Heknew well enough, in spite of Meschini's protestations, that he was notso poor as he pretended to be. If he were he could not have paid soregularly for the chemicals and for the experiments necessary to thepreparation of his inks. More than once the operations had proved to beexpensive, but the librarian had never complained, though he haggledfor a baiocco over his dinner at Cicco's wine shop, and was generallyangry when he lost a paul at cards. He had money somewhere. It wasevident that he was in a highly nervous state. If he could be inducedto take opium once or twice it might become a habit. To sell opium wasvery profitable, and Colaisso knew well enough the power of the viceand the proportions it would soon assume, especially if Meschinithought the medicine contained only some harmless drug.
"Very well," said the apothecary. "I will make you a draught. But youmust be sure that you are ready to sleep when you take it. It acts veryquickly."
The draught which Meschini carried home with him was nothing but weaklaudanum and water. It looked innocent enough, in the little glassbottle labelled "Sleeping potion." But the effect of it, as Colaissohad told him, was very rapid. Exhausted by all he had suffered, thelibrarian closed the windows of his room and lay down to rest. In aquarter of an hour he was in a heavy sleep. In his dreams he washappier than he had ever been before. The whole world seemed to be his,to use as he pleased. He was transformed into a magnificent being suchas he had never imagined in his waking hours. He passed from one sceneof splendour to another, from glory to glory, surrounded by forms ofbeauty, by showers of golden light in a beatitude beyond alldescription. It was as though he had suddenly become emperor of thewhole universe. He floated through wondrous regions of soft colour, andstrains of divine music sounded in his ears. Gentle hands carried himwith an easy swaying motion to transcendent heights, where every breathhe drew was like a draught of sparkling life. His whole being wasfilled with something which he knew was happiness, until he felt asthough he could not contain the overflowing joy. At one moment heglided beyond the clouds through a gorgeous sunset; at another he waslying on a soft invisible couch, looking out to the brightdistance--distance that never ended, never could end, but thecontemplation of which was rapture, the greater for being inexplicable.An exquisite new sense was in him, corresponding to no bodily instinct,but rejoicing wildly in something that could not be defined, norunderstood, nor measured, but only felt.
At last he began to descend, slowly at first and then with increasingspeed, till he grew giddy and unconscious in the fall. He awoke anduttered a cry of terror. It was night, and he was alone in the dark. Hewas chilled to the bone, too, and his head was heavy, but the darknesswas unbearable, and though he would gladly have slept again he darednot remain an instant without a light. He groped about for his matches,found them, and lit a candle. A neighbouring clock tolled out the hourof midnight, and the sound of the bells terrified him beyond measure.Cold, miserable, in an agony of fear, his nervousness doubled by theopium and by a need of food of which he was not aware, there was butone remedy within his reach. The sleeping potion had been calculatedfor one occasion only, and it was all gone. He tried to drain a fewdrops from the phial, and a drowsy, half-sickening odour rose from itto his nostrils. But there was nothing left, nothing but the brandy,and little more than half a bottle of that. It was enough for hispresent need, however, and more than enough. He drank greedily, for hewas parched with thirst, though hardly conscious of the fact. Then heslept till morning. But when he opened his eyes he was conscious thathe was in a worse state than on the previous day. He was not onlynervous but exhausted, and it was with feeble steps that he made hisway to his friend's shop, in order to procure a double dose of thesleeping mixture. If he could sleep through the twenty-four hours, hethought, so as not to wake up in the dead of night, he should bebetter. When he made his appearance Tiberio Colaisso knew what hewanted, and although he had half repented of what he had done, therenewed possibility of selling the precious drug was a temptation hecould not withstand.
One day succeeded another, and each morning saw Arnoldo Meschinicrossing the Ponte Quattro Capi on his way to the apothecary's. In theordinary course of human nature a man does not become an opium-eater ina day, nor even, perhaps,
in a week, but to the librarian the narcoticbecame a necessity almost from the first. Its action, combined withincessant doses of alcohol, was destructive, but the man's constitutionwas stronger than would have been believed. He possessed, moreover, agreat power of controlling his features when he was not assailed bysupernatural fears, and so it came about that, living almost insolitude, no one in the Palazzo Montevarchi was aware of his state. Itwas bad enough, indeed, for when he was not under the influence ofbrandy he was sleeping from the effects of opium. In three days he waswilling to pay anything the apothecary asked, and seemed scarcelyconscious of the payments he made. He kept up a show of playing theaccustomed game of cards, but he was absent-minded, and was not evenangry at his daily losses. The apothecary had more money in his pocketthan he had possessed for many a day. As Arnoldo Meschini sank deeperand deeper, the chemist's spirits rose, and he began to assume an airof unwonted prosperity. One of the earliest results of the librarian'sdegraded condition was that Tiberio Colaisso procured himself a newgreen smoking cap ornamented profusely with fresh silver lace.
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