CHAPTER XXVIII.
Arnoldo Meschini was not, perhaps, insane in the ordinary sense of theword; that is to say, he would probably have recovered the normalbalance of his faculties if he could have been kept from narcotics andstimulants, and if he could have been relieved from the distractingfear of discovery which tormented him when he was not under theinfluence of one or the other. But the latter condition was impossible,and it was the extremity of his terror which almost forced him to keephis brain in a clouded state. People have been driven mad by suddenfright, and have gradually lost their intellect through the constantpresence of a fear from which there is no escape. A man who isperpetually producing an unnatural state of his mind by swallowingdoses of brandy and opium may not be insane in theory; in actual fact,he may be a dangerous madman. As one day followed another Meschinifound it more and more impossible to exist without his two comforters.The least approach to lucidity made him almost frantic. He fanciedevery man a spy, every indifferent glance a look full of meaning.Before long the belief took possession of him that he was to be madethe victim of some horrible private vengeance. San Giacinto was not theman, he thought, to be contented with sending him to the galleys forlife. Few murderers were executed in those days, and it would be asmall satisfaction to the Montevarchi to know that Arnoldo had merelybeen transferred from his study of the library catalogue to thebreaking of stones with a chain gang at Civitavecchia. It was morelikely that they would revenge themselves more effectually. Hisdisordered imagination saw horrible visions. San Giacinto might lay atrap for him, might simply come at dead of night and take him from hisroom to some deep vault beneath the palace. What could he do againstsuch a giant? He fancied himself before a secret tribunal in the midstof which towered San Giacinto's colossal figure. He could hear the deepvoice he dreaded pronouncing his doom. He was to be torn to shredspiecemeal, burnt by a slow fire, flayed alive by those enormous hands.There was no conceivable horror of torture that did not suggest itselfto him at such times. It is true that when he went to bed at night hewas generally either so stupefied by opium or so intoxicated withstrong drink that he forgot even to lock his door. But during the dayhe was seldom so far under the power of either as not to suffer fromhis own hideous imaginings. One day, as he dragged his slow pace alonga narrow street near the fountain of Trevi, his eyes were arrested byan armourer's window. It suddenly struck him that he had no weapon ofdefence in case San Giacinto or his agents came upon him unawares. Andyet a bullet well placed would make an end even of such a Hercules asthe man he feared. He paused and looked anxiously up and down thestreet. It was a dark day and a fine rain was falling. There was nobodyabout who could recognise him, and he might not have another suchopportunity of providing himself unobserved with what he wanted. Heentered the shop and bought himself a revolver. The man showed him howto load it and sold him a box of cartridges. He dropped the firearminto one of the pockets of his coat, and smiled as he felt howcomfortably it balanced the bottle he carried in the other. Then heslunk out of the shop and pursued his walk.
The idea of making capital out of the original deeds concerning theSaracinesca, which had presented itself to him soon after the murder,recurred frequently to his mind; but he felt that he was in nocondition to elaborate it, and promised himself to attend to the matterwhen he was better. For he fancied that he was ill and that his statewould soon begin to improve. To go to San Giacinto now was out of thequestion. It would have been easier for him to climb the cross on thesummit of St. Peter's, with his shaken nerves and trembling limbs, thanto face the man who inspired in him such untold dread. He could, ofcourse, take the alternative which was open to him, and go to oldSaracinesca. Indeed, there were moments when he could almost havescrewed his courage to the point of making such an attempt, but hisnatural prudence made him draw back from an interview in which he mustincur a desperate risk unless he had a perfect command of hisfaculties. To write what he had to say would be merely to give a weaponagainst himself, since he could not treat the matter by letter withoutacknowledging his share in the forgeries. The only way to accomplishhis purpose would be to extract a solemn promise of secrecy fromSaracinesca, together with a guarantee for his own safety, and toobtain these conditions would need all the diplomacy he possessed. Badas he was, he had no experience of practical blackmailing, and he wouldbe obliged to compose his speeches beforehand with scrupulous care, andwith the wisest forethought. For the present, such work was beyond hispower, but when he was half drunk he loved to look at the ancientparchments and build golden palaces in the future. When he was strongagain, and calm, he would realise all his dreams, and that time, hefelt sure, could not be far removed.
Nevertheless the days succeeded each other with appalling swiftness,and nothing was done. By imperceptible degrees his horror of SanGiacinto began to invade his mind even when it was most deadened bydrink. So long as an idea is new and has not really become a habit ofthe brain, brandy will drive it away, but the moment must inevitablycome when the stimulant loses its power to obscure the memory of thething dreaded. Opium will do it more effectually, but even that doesnot continue to act for ever. The time comes when the predominantthought of the waking hours reproduces itself during the artificialsleep with fearful force, so that the mind at last obtains no rest atall. That is the dangerous period, preceding the decay and totalcollapse of the intellect under what is commonly called the fixed idea.In certain conditions of mind, and notably with criminals who feardiscovery, the effects of opium change very quickly; the downward stepsthrough which it would take months for an ordinary individual to passare descended with alarming rapidity, and the end is a thousand timesmore horrible. Meschini could not have taken the doses which aconfirmed opium-eater swallows with indifference, but the resultproduced was far greater in proportion to the amount of the narcotic heconsumed. Before the week which followed the deed was ended, he beganto see visions when he was apparently awake. Shapeless, slimy thingscrawled about the floor of his room, upon his table, even upon thesheets of his bed. Dark shadows confronted him, and changed theiroutlines unexpectedly. Forms rose out of the earth at his feet andtowered all at once to the top of the room, taking the appearance ofSan Giacinto and vanishing suddenly into the air. The things he sawcame like instantaneous flashes from another and even more terribleworld, disappearing at first so quickly as to make him believe themonly the effects of the light and darkness, like the ghost he had seenin his coat. In the beginning there was scarcely anything alarming inthem, but as he started whenever they came, he generally took them as awarning that he needed more brandy to keep him up. In the course of aday or two, however, these visions assumed more awful proportions, andhe found it impossible to escape from them except in absolute stupor.It would have been clear to any one that this state of things could notlast long. There was scarcely an hour in which he knew exactly what hewas doing, and if his strange behaviour escaped observation this wasdue to his solitary way of living. He did not keep away from the palaceduring the whole day, from a vague idea that his absence might bethought suspicious. He spent a certain number of hours in the library,doing nothing, although he carefully spread out a number of booksbefore him and dipped his pen into the ink from time to time, stupidly,mechanically, as though his fingers could not forget the habit so longfamiliar to them. His eyes,--which had formerly been unusually bright,had grown dull and almost bleared, though they glanced at times veryquickly from one part of the room to another. That was when he sawstrange things moving in the vast hall, between him and the bookcases.When they had disappeared, his glassy look returned, so that hiseyeballs seemed merely to reflect the light, as inanimate objects do,without absorbing it, and conveying it to the seat of vision. His facegrew daily more thin and ghastly. It was by force of custom that hestayed so long in the place where he had spent so much of his life. Theintervals of semi-lucidity seemed terribly long, though they were inreality short enough, and the effort to engage his attention in workhelped him to live through them. He had never gone down to theapartments w
here the family lived, since he had knelt before thecatafalque on the day after the murder. Indeed, there was no reason whyhe should go there, and no one noticed his absence. He was a veryinsignificant person in the palace. As for any one coming to find himamong the books, nothing seemed more improbable. The library was sweptout in the early morning and no one entered it again during thetwenty-four hours. He never went out into the corridor now, but lefthis coat upon a chair near him, when he remembered to bring it. As asort of precautionary measure against fear, he locked the door whichopened upon the passage when he came in the morning, unlocking it againwhen he went away in order that the servant who did the sweeping mightbe able to get in.
The Princess Montevarchi was still dangerously ill, and Faustina hadnot been willing to leave her. San Giacinto and Flavia were not livingin the house, but they spent a good deal of time there, because SanGiacinto had ideas of his own about duty, to which his wife was obligedto submit even if she did not like them. Faustina was neither nervousnor afraid of solitude, and was by no means in need of her sister'scompany, so that when the two were together their conversation was notalways of the most affectionate kind. The consequence was that theyoung girl tried to be alone as much as possible when she was not ather mother's bedside. One day, having absolutely nothing to do, shegrew desperate. It was very hard not to think of Anastase, when she wasin the solitude of her own room, with no occupation to direct her mind.A week earlier she had been only too glad to have the opportunity ofdreaming away the short afternoon undisturbed, letting her girlishthoughts wander among the rose gardens of the future with the image ofthe man she loved so dearly, and who was yet so far removed from her.Now she could not think of him without reflecting that her father'sdeath had removed one very great obstacle to her marriage. She was byno means of a very devout or saintly character, but, on the other hand,she had a great deal of what is called heart, and to be heartlessseemed to her almost worse than to be bad. In excuse of such veryuntheological doctrines it must be allowed that her ideas concerningwickedness in general were very limited indeed, if not altogetherchildish in their extreme simplicity. It is certain, however, that shewould have thought it far less wrong to run away with Gouache in spiteof her family than to entertain any thought which could place herfather's tragic death in the light of a personal advantage. If she hadnothing to do she could not help thinking of Anastase, and if shethought of him, she could not escape the conclusion that it would befar easier for her to marry him, now that the old prince was out of theway. It was therefore absolutely necessary to find some occupation.
At first she wandered aimlessly about the house until she was struck,almost for the first time, by the antiquated stiffness of thearrangement, and began to ask herself whether it would be respectful tothe memory of her father, and to her mother, to try and make a fewchanges. Corona's home was very different. She would like to take thatfor a model. But one or two attempts showed her the magnitude of thetask she had undertaken. She was ashamed to call the servants to helpher--it would look as though there were to be a reception in the house.Her ideas of what could take place in the Palazzo Montevarchi did notgo beyond that staid form of diversion. She was ashamed, however, andreflected, besides, that she was only the youngest of the family andhad no right to take the initiative in the matter of improvements. Thetime hung very heavily upon her hands. She tried to teach herselfsomething about painting by looking at the pictures on the walls,spending a quarter of an hour before each with conscientious assiduity.But this did not succeed either. The men in the pictures all took theshape of Monsieur Gouache in his smartest uniform and the women alllooked disagreeably like Flavia. Then she thought of the library, whichwas the only place of importance in the house which she had not latelyvisited. She hesitated a moment only, considering how she could bestreach it without passing through the study, and without going up thegrand staircase to the outer door. A very little reflection showed herthat she could get into the corridor from a passage near her own room.In a few minutes she was at the entrance to the great hall, trying toturn the heavy carved brass handle of the latch. To her surprise shecould not open the door, which was evidently fastened from within. Thenas she shook it in the hope that some one would hear her, a strange cryreached her ears, like that of a startled animal, accompanied by theshuffling of feet. She remembered Meschini's walk, and understood thatit was he.
"Please let me in!" she called out in her clear young voice, thatechoed back to her from the vaulted chamber.
Again she heard the shuffling footsteps, which this time came towardsher, and a moment afterwards the door opened and the librarian'sghastly face was close before her. She drew back a little. She hadforgotten that he was so ugly, she thought, or perhaps she would nothave cared to see him. It would have been foolish, moreover, to go awayafter coming thus far.
"I want to see the library," she said quietly, after she had made upher mind. "Will you show it to me?"
"Favorisca, Excellency," replied Meschini in a broken voice. He hadbeen frightened by the noise at the door, and the contortion of hisface as he tried to smile was hideous to see. He bowed low, however,and closed the door after she had entered. Scarcely knowing what hedid, he shuffled along by her side while she looked about the library,gazing at the long rows of books, bound all alike, that stretched fromend to end of many of the shelves. The place was new to her, for shehad not been in it more than two or three times in her life, and shefelt a sort of unexplained awe in the presence of so many thousands ofvolumes, of so much written and printed wisdom which she could neverhope to understand. She had come with a vague idea that she should findsomething to read that should be different from the novels she was notallowed to touch. She realised all at once that she knew nothing ofwhat had been written in all the centuries whose literature wasrepresented in the vast collection. She hardly knew the names of twentybooks out of the hundreds of millions that the world contained. But shecould ask Meschini. She looked at him again, and his face repelled her.Nevertheless, she was too kindhearted not to enter into conversationwith the lonely man whom she had so rarely seen, but who was one of theoldest members of her father's household.
"You have spent your life here, have you not?" she asked, for the sakeof saying something.
"Nearly thirty years of it," answered Meschini in a muffled voice. Herpresence tortured him beyond expression. "That is a long time, and I amnot an old man."
"And are you always alone here? Do you never go out? What do you do allday?"
"I work among the books, Excellency. There are twenty thousand volumeshere, enough to occupy a man's time."
"Yes--but how? Do you have to read them all?" asked Faustinainnocently. "Is that your work?"
"I have read many more than would be believed, for my own pleasure. Butmy work is to keep them in order, to see that there is no variationfrom the catalogue, so that when learned men come to make inquiriesthey may find what they want. I have also to take care of all thebooks, to see that they do not suffer in any way. They are veryvaluable. There is a fortune here."
Somehow he felt less nervous when he began to speak of the library andits contents and the words came more easily to him. With a littleencouragement he might even become loquacious. In spite of his face,Faustina began to feel an interest in him.
"It must be very hard work," she remarked. "Do you like it? Did younever want to do anything else? I should think you would grow tired ofbeing always alone."
"I am very patient," answered Meschini humbly. "And I am used to it. Igrew accustomed to the life when I was young."
"You say the collection is valuable. Are there any very beautifulbooks? I would like to see some of them."
The fair young creature sat down upon one of the high carved chairs atthe end of a table. Meschini went to the other side of the hall andunlocked one of the drawers which lined the lower part of the bookcasesto the height of three or four feet. Each was heavily carved with theMontevarchi arms in high relief. It was in these receptacles that theprecious man
uscripts were kept in their cases. He returned bringing asmall square volume of bound manuscript, and laid it before Faustina.
"This is worth an enormous sum," he said. "It is the only complete onein the world. There is an imperfect copy in the library of the Vatican."
"What is it?"
"It is the Montevarchi Dante, the oldest in existence."
Faustina turned over the leaves curiously, and admired the even writingthough she could not read many of the words, for the ancient characterswere strange to her. It was a wonderful picture that the couple made inthe great hall. On every side the huge carved bookcases of walnut,black with age, rose from the floor to the spring of the vault, theirdark faces reflected in the highly-polished floor of coloured marble.Across the ancient tables a ray of sunlight fell from the highclerestory window. In the centre, the two figures with the oldmanuscript between them; Faustina's angel head in a high light againstthe dusky background, as she bent forward a little, turning the yellowpages with her slender, transparent fingers, the black folds of herfull gown making heavy lines of drapery, graceful by her grace, andrendered less severe by a sort of youthfulness that seemed to pervadethem, and that emanated from herself. Beside her, the bent frame of thebroken down librarian, in a humble and respectful attitude, his longarms hanging down by his sides, his shabby black coat almost draggingto his heels, his head bent forward as he looked at the pages. All hisfeatures seemed to have grown more sharp and yellow and pointed, andthere was now a deep red flush in the upper part of his cheeks. Amomentary light shone in his gray eyes, from beneath the bushy brows, alight of intelligence such as had formerly characterised themespecially, brought back now perhaps by the effort to fix his attentionupon the precious book. His large, coarse ears appeared to pointthemselves forward like those of an animal, following the direction ofhis sight. In outward appearance he presented a strange mixture ofdilapidation, keenness, and brutality. A week had changed him verymuch. A few days ago most people would have looked at him with a sortof careless compassion. Now, there was about him something distinctlyrepulsive. Beside Faustina's youth and delicacy, and freshness, hehardly seemed like a human being.
"I suppose it is a very wonderful thing," said the young girl at last,"but I do not know enough to understand its value. Do my brothers evercome to the library?" She leaned back from the volume and glanced atMeschini's face, wondering how heaven could have made anything so ugly.
"No. They never come," replied the librarian, drawing the book towardshim instinctively, as he would have done if his visitor had been astranger, who might try to steal a page or two unless he were watched.
"But my poor father was very fond of the books, was he not? Did he notoften come to see you here?"
She was thinking so little of Meschini that she did not see that heturned suddenly white and shook like a man in an ague. It was what hehad feared all along, ever since she had entered the room. Shesuspected him and had come, or had perhaps been sent by San Giacinto todraw him into conversation and to catch him in something which could beinterpreted to be a confession of his crime. Had that been herintention, his behaviour would have left little doubt in her mind as tothe truth of the accusation. His face betrayed him, his uncontrollablefear, his frightened eyes and trembling limbs. But she had only glancedat him, and her sight wandered to the bookcases for a moment. When shelooked again he was moving away from her, along the table. She wassurprised to see that his step was uncertain, and that he reeledagainst the heavy piece of furniture and grasped it for support. Shestarted a little but did not rise.
"Are you ill?" she asked. "Shall I call some one?"
He made no answer, but seemed to recover himself at the sound of hervoice, for he shuffled away and disappeared behind the high carved deskon which lay the open catalogue. She thought she saw a flash of lightreflected from some smooth surface, and immediately afterwards sheheard a gurgling sound, which she did not understand. Meschini wasfortifying himself with a draught. Then he reappeared, walking moresteadily. He had received a severe shock, but, as usual, he had not thecourage to run away, conceiving that flight would inevitably beregarded as a proof of guilt.
"I am not well," he said in explanation as he returned. "I am obligedto take medicine continually. I beg your Excellency to forgive me."
"I am sorry to hear that," answered Faustina kindly. "Can we do nothingfor you? Have you all you need?"
"Everything, thank you. I shall soon be well."
"I hope so, I am sure. What was I saying? Oh--I was asking whether mypoor father came often to the library. Was he fond of the books?"
"His Excellency--Heaven give him glory!--he was a learned man. Yes, hecame now and then." Meschini took possession of the manuscript andcarried it off rather suddenly to its place in the drawer. He was along time in locking it up. Faustina watched him with some curiosity.
"You were here that day, were you not?" she asked, as he turned towardsher once more. The question was a natural one, considering thecircumstances.
"I think your Excellency was present when I was examined by theprefect," answered Meschini in a curiously disagreeable tone.
"True," said Faustina. "You said you had been here all day as usual. Ihad forgotten. How horrible it was. And you saw nobody, you heardnothing? But I suppose it is too far from the study."
The librarian did not answer, but it was evident from his manner thathe was very much disturbed. Indeed, he fancied that his worst fearswere realised, and that Faustina was really trying to extractinformation from him for his own conviction. Her thoughts were actuallyvery far from any such idea. She would have considered it quite asabsurd to accuse the poor wretch before her as she had thought itoutrageous that she herself should be suspected. Her father had alwaysseemed to her a very imposing personage, and she could not conceivethat he should have met his death at the hands of such a miserablecreature as Arnoldo Meschini, who certainly had not the outward signsof physical strength or boldness. He, however, understood her wordsvery differently and stood still, half way between her and thebookcases, asking himself whether it would not be better to takeimmediate steps for his safety. His hand was behind him, feeling forthe revolver in the pocket of his long coat. Faustina was singularlyfearless, by nature, but if she had guessed the danger of her positionshe would probably have effected her escape very quickly, instead ofcontinuing the conversation.
"It is a very dreadful mystery," she said, rising from her chair andwalking slowly across the polished marble floor until she stood beforea row of great volumes of which the colour had attracted her eye. "Itis the duty of us all to try and explain it. Of course we shall knowall about it some day, but it is very hard to be patient. Do you know?"she turned suddenly and faced Meschini, speaking with a vehemence notusual for her. "They suspected me, as if I could have done it, I, aweak girl! And yet--if I had the man before me--the man who murderedhim--I believe I would kill him with my hands!"
She moved forward a little, as she spoke, and tapped her small footupon the pavement, as though to emphasise her words. Her soft browneyes flashed with righteous anger, and her cheek grew pale at thethought of avenging her father. There must have been something veryfierce in her young face, for Meschini's heart failed him, and hisnerves seemed to collapse all at once. He tried to draw back from her,slipped and fell upon his knees with a sharp cry of fear. Even then,Faustina did not suspect the cause of his weakness, but attributed itto the illness of which he had spoken. She sprang forward and attemptedto help the poor creature to his feet, but instead of making an effortto rise, he seemed to be grovelling before her, uttering incoherentexclamations of terror.
"Lean on me!" said Faustina, putting out her hand. "What is the matter?Oh! Are you going to die!"
"Oh! oh! Do not hurt me--pray--in God's name!" cried Meschini, raisinghis eyes timidly.
"Hurt you? No! Why should I hurt you? You are ill--we will have thedoctor. Try and get up--try and get to a chair."
Her tone reassured him a little, and her touch also, as she di
d herbest to raise him to his feet. He struggled a little and at last stoodup, leaning upon the bookcase, and panting with fright.
"It is nothing," he tried to say, catching his breath at everysyllable. "I am better--my nerves--your Excellency--ugh! what a cowardI am!"
The last exclamation, uttered in profound disgust of his own weakness,struck Faustina as very strange.
"Did I frighten you?" she asked in surprise. "I am very sorry. Now sitdown and I will call some one to come to you."
"No, no! Please--I would rather be alone! I can walk quite well now.If--if your Excellency will excuse me, I will go to my room. I havemore medicine--I will take it and I shall be better."
"Can you go alone? Are you sure?" asked Faustina anxiously. But evenwhile she spoke he was moving towards the door, slowly and painfully atfirst, as it seemed, though possibly a lingering thought of proprietykept him from appearing to run away. The young girl walked a few stepsafter him, half fearing that he might fall again. But he kept his feetand reached the threshold. Then he made a queer attempt at a bow, andmumbled some words that Faustina could not hear. In another moment hehad disappeared, and she was alone.
For some minutes she looked at the closed door through which he hadgone out. Then she shook her head a little sadly, and slowly went backto her room by the way she had come. It was all very strange, shethought, but his illness might account for it. She would have liked toconsult San Giacinto, but though she was outwardly on good terms withhim, and could not help feeling a sort of respect for his manlycharacter, the part he had played in attempting to separate her fromGouache had prevented the two from becoming intimate. She said nothingto any one about her interview with Meschini in the library, and no oneeven guessed that she had been there.