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 Diego 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 Graphaeus, 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, Égide 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 félicitations 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 eleison 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 félicitations.

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. 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.