"Suppose we say two o'clock?"
"Very well; between two and three."
"I will call for you to accompany me, signor. Do not be disturbed by this
domiciliary visit; it implies no suspicion, but, as I said before, it is a
simple condescension to the populace. Shall I have the honor of meeting
you this evening at the house of Mr. Van de Werve?"
"I do not know, messire. Mary's excessive grief affects me so much that it
haunts me day and night. Would that I could offer the least consolation to
the afflicted young girl! But of what use is it to mingle my tears with
hers, when there is no ray of hope to illumine the darkness of her
despair?"
Messire Van Schoonhoven pressed Simon's hand.
"Your sincere friendship for Geronimo does you honor, signor," he said.
"Were he your own brother, you could not be more deeply grieved. And how
great is your generosity! Geronimo was your friend, but he was at the same
time an obstacle to the accomplishment of the dearest wish of your heart.
Through affection for him you have sacrificed your fondest hopes of
happiness. But the inexplicable disappearance of Geronimo spreads out
before you a brighter future. Time will alleviate the bitterness of Mary's
sorrow, and who so well as yourself, signor, could restore her to
happiness--you who possess her father's confidence and esteem?"
"Speak not of such things," said Simon. "I would gladly yield all the
happiness the future might have in store for me to see my friend once more
unharmed. But alas! alas!"
"That does not prevent me, signor, from cherishing the hope that, if
Geronimo is really dead, you may one day receive the reward of your
sincere friendship and your magnanimous generosity. To-morrow at two
o'clock! May God be with you, signor!"
"And may He protect you, messire!"
Simon Turchi watched him until he was lost to sight, and then glanced
around in order to note the degree of darkness. He drew his cloak closely
around him, and walked rapidly down a side street, which soon brought him
before the gate of his own garden. Unlocking the door, he traversed the
walk rendered almost invisible by the darkness.
Beaching the house, he lighted a lamp and ascended the stairs to a room,
which, in better times, he was accustomed to use as a bed-room, when
occasionally he passed the night at the pavilion.
Casting his cloak upon a chair, he seated himself near a table, evidently
a prey to distracting thoughts. He drew a phial from his doublet, and
fixed his eyes upon it. By degrees, however, the clouds seemed to pass
from his mind. He replaced the phial in his doublet, and said, calmly: "Why am I so terrified? Did I not expect the search? Have not my
precautions been well taken? What have I to fear? Julio is already at
such a distance that he cannot be overtaken. If the corpse be found in the
cellar, I will impute the crime to Julio. My explanation will be such that
there will be no room for suspicion. But suppose it should be known! O
torturing doubt! What a desperate game! Wealth, honor, power, and the hand
of Mary Van de Werve, against my life and the honor of my family! Triumph
and happiness on the one hand; disgrace and death on the scaffold on the
other! Suppose I go to the bailiff, and accuse Julio of the murder? That
would put me above suspicion. But no; the search will be superficial, mere
matter of form for the sake of appearances. If Julio as arranged things
properly, they will merely cast a glance into the cellar. My presence will
be a restraint upon the officers, and will prevent them from pushing their
search so far as to imply a suspicion. If they do not find the body, as is
probable, the affair will forever remain secret, and I will have in future
no cause for alarm. I must take courage and descend into the cellar, to
see how Julio performed the task assigned him before his departure."