SIMON TURCHI’S ALARM-CRIME BEGETS CRIME.

Some time after the hour of Change, Simon Turchi had returned home, and was apparently preparing to go out again, for he had changed his doublet for one of a darker color, and his cloak lay on a chair beside him.

The signor was in high spirits; he carried his head proudly, a radiant smile illumined his countenance, and from time to time he rubbed his hands with an air of triumph.  Julio had left for Germany!  Nothing could have prevented his departure, for he had not been seen in the city.  Simon Turchi has therefore no cause for fear, for if, contrary to expectation, his garden be searched and the corpse of Geronimo be discovered, the murder could easily be fastened upon Julio.

Already, by vague remarks to his servants and acquaintances, Turchi had prepared the way for making the accusation in case of necessity.  He had exhibited great anxiety at Julio’s absence the night before and during that day.  He said that he had sharply reproved his servant for his dissipated habits and his neglect of duty.  Julio had left him in evident anger.

The servants, who could not comprehend their master’s anxiety, thought that he might be in some tavern, drowning his feelings with drink and awaiting the night to return home.  To this Turchi answered that he had remarked for some time Julio’s strange manner, that he seemed so absent-minded, was often heard to sigh and weep-in a word, something weighty appeared pressing on his conscience.

Early in the morning he sent Bernardo to the pavilion to see if Julio were there.  Bernardo reported that there was no evidence of his having been there, except two empty bottles upon a table.  Simon pretended that he had the bottles placed in the room, and Bernardo thought no more of the affair.

Simon Turchi would have satisfied himself by personal examination if Julio had thoroughly performed his work before his departure, but he feared to excite attention by his appearance in that direction; or, perhaps, he might even be obliged to assist at the search of his garden, should the bailiff refuse to exempt it.  He determined to go to the cellar at nightfall, when the search must be interrupted, to examine the arrangements made by Julio.  When therefore twilight was commencing to replace the glare of day, and Simon was certain of not meeting the officers of the law, he threw his cloak around his shoulders, turned with a light step and joyous heart the corner of the street, and took the direction to the square of Meir.

He had gone but a short distance, when he met Messire John Van Schoonhoven.

A smile lighted up Turchi’s countenance.  He was delighted to be accidentally brought into the bailiff’s company, as he would thus learn the result of the researches already made.

After a polite salutation, Messire Van Schoonhoven said: 

“I am happy to meet you.  I was on my way to your house.”

“To my house?” said Turchi.  “Have you news of my friend?”

“No, signor; I wish to see you concerning an affair which, although not serious, necessitates a conversation with you.  I would have spoken to you on this subject this evening when at Mr. Van de Werve’s, but the place was inappropriate to such discussions.”

“Return then with me,” stammered Turchi, with ill-disguised anxiety.

“Where were you going, signor?” said the bailiff.

“I was going to take a walk along the Scheldt, in order to seek some diversion to the grief I feel for the disappearance of the unfortunate Geronimo.”

“What I have to say, signor, need not interfere with your walk.  I will accompany you a part of the way and enjoy with you the evening breeze.”

The bailiff turned and walked by Turchi’s side.

Looking around, to assure himself that they were not overheard, Messire Van Schoonhoven said: 

“The affair in question would not require so many precautions were I not bailiff and you my friend.  But in consequence of these two reasons, my mission becomes painful, and I must claim in advance your forbearance.  You know that my agents are searching every house, building, and garden in the vicinity of the Hospital Grounds where Geronimo was last seen.  The greatest part of this quarter has been carefully examined without any result.”

Simon Turchi perfectly understood the bailiff’s design, and although his heart beat painfully, he mastered his emotion, and said in an indifferent tone: 

“And you think, Messire Van Schoonhoven, that my garden should be searched in like manner?  It is very natural.  No one is above the law-the knight and the peasant are there equal.”

“Believe me, signor, that the thought of so disrespectful a conduct towards an honorable nobleman, and that nobleman my friend for years, would never have occurred to me.  But the search became a necessity without any fault of mine.  The presence of at least twenty of my agents in that quarter attracted the curious.  A crowd followed those engaged in the search, and when it was noticed that your summer-house was the only one exempted, the magistrates were openly accused of injustice.  The people were told that this was done by my order; but so great was the commotion that the affair reached the ears of the burgomaster and the constables, and these gentlemen waited on me, urging me to visit your garden likewise, so as to remove all cause of complaint.”

“This explanation is wholly unnecessary, at least as far as regards myself,” interrupted Simon Turchi.  “I desire you to search my country-house as you do all the other dwellings in the vicinity.”

They were not far from the bridge of Meir, and they ceased speaking, as in so frequented a place they were in danger of being overheard.  Farther on, Turchi said: 

“I acknowledge, however, that I am hurt and irritated by the disrespect and audacity of the populace.  One might be tempted to suppose that they considered me capable of killing my best friend!  My blood boils at the idea of such a suspicion!”

Simon gladly availed himself of the opportunity thus offered of attributing to a just indignation the cruel anxiety which tortured him.  He had anticipated the announcement just made him by the bailiff, and in consequence had taken suitable measures to screen himself in case of discovery; but now a terrible doubt as to the result of the search, and as to the confidence which might be reposed in his statements, arose in his mind.  The least unforeseen accident, the slightest oversight in his arrangement, might be his ruin.

“It is scandalous!” he exclaimed, shaking his fist.  “To express publicly the opinion that a nobleman could so far degrade himself as to become a secret assassin!  I will know who my insolent calumniators are, and I will then see if justice has power at Antwerp to protect an innocent stranger against the defamation of the people!”

“Calm yourself, signor,” said Messire Van Schoonhoven; “I comprehend your well-founded indignation; but you are mistaken if you think the perquisition ordered by the burgomaster and constables be, in your regard, aught but a condescension to the clamors of the multitude.  As for myself, I beg you not to be displeased with me for accomplishing my duty.”

“You need offer no excuse, messire,” said Simon, speaking more calmly.  “It is but proper and natural to search my garden.  I am irritated solely by the insolence of the people.  Do your duty, and continue to honor me with a friendship of which I am proud, and of which I will always strive to be worthy.”

“When will it be convenient to you, Signor Turchi, to have the officers visit your house?” asked the bailiff.

“The time is perfectly indifferent to me.”

“But appoint an hour; I would regret causing you any inconvenience or trouble.”

Simon Turchi reflected a moment, and said: 

“To-morrow morning urgent affairs demand my attention; come then about noon.”

“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.”

He approached a large wardrobe, took from it a bottle, poured out a large glass of wine and drank it.  Lighted by the lamp, he descended the staircase and approached the cellar; but before proceeding through the subterranean passage, he hesitated and stepped back: 

“Singular!” he said; “I am overpowered by fear!  I recoil in terror before that dark cave, as though the dead could arise from the grave to take revenge.  What!  I had the courage to stab him while living, and yet I tremble upon approaching the spot where lie his inanimate remains!  Away with this childish terror!”

However bold his words, the Signor Turchi did not become calm, and his heart beat violently as he again slowly approached the entrance to the cellar.  He hesitated an instant, as he looked down the long, dark passage, but was about to proceed, when a noise outside the building made him shake with fear.

“What can it be?  Am I not mistaken?  Some one unlocks the garden-gate!  Will I be found here?  Am I betrayed?”

After a moment of torturing doubt he fled from the cellar to his room, his hair bristling with terror.

“They open the door of the house!  They are within!  They come!  Great heavens!  What can it mean?”

A man appeared on the threshold of the room in which Simon Turchi had taken refuge.

“Julio! it is Julio!” exclaimed Simon, in despair.

The servant reeled under the influence of liquor.  His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wandering, and while the smile upon his lips indicated a disagreeable surprise at the presence of his master, it also said plainly that he feared not Simon’s anger.  He held in his hand a small wheaten loaf, but he hid it hastily under his doublet as if unwilling for Turchi to see it.

Casting upon him a look of fury, Simon Turchi sprang to his feet, clenched his fist, and exclaimed in a rage: 

“This is too much!  Infamous traitor! cowardly rascal! whence do you come?  Does hell itself bring you here for the destruction of both of us?  Speak, base drunkard, and tell me why you are here!  Quick, or I will stretch you dead at my feet.  I thirst for your blood.”

Julio drew his knife from the scabbard and stammered, in a voice indistinct from intoxication: 

“Wait awhile, signor.  Wine, good wine has dulled my senses.  You want to kill me?  It would be very fortunate for one of us to die here-the executioner would have less work.  But which of us must first render our account before the supreme tribunal, my knife and your dagger will decide.  I am ready.”

“Insolent wretch!” cried Turchi, grinding his teeth, “my own safety and yours compel me to a painful circumspection; but beware how you brave me!  Tell me why you are not on your way to Germany.”

“You ask me something that I don’t know myself.  But let me see.  Just as I was about to leave I went to the Swan, and drank a few pints of wine.  This morning, when I awoke, I was seated before a table at the Silver Dice.  How I came there, I cannot tell.  It was then too late for me to pass the gate.  I determined to wait until to-morrow, and I came here to take a night’s rest before setting out on the journey.”

“And you played at dice?” said Turchi.

“I think I did; for the rattling of the dice still sounds in my ears.”

“And the money? the two hundred crowns?”

“Be quiet, signor, on that point.  I ask you for nothing.  What business is it of yours that I have spent or lost a few pieces of gold, provided I leave for Germany to-morrow at daybreak?”

Simon Turchi was like one frenzied.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “and at the first tavern you meet on the way you will drown your senses with drink, and you will squander my money.”

“Not so, signor; rely upon me-I will leave to-morrow morning at daybreak, and if I drink on the way it will only be to quench a burning thirst.”

Simon Turchi’s eye shone with a sudden and mysterious light, excited by some secret thought.  He became calm, and shrugging his shoulders, said quietly, as though he submitted with resignation to the contradictions which he could not avoid: 

“I ought, Julio, to punish your want of fidelity.  If the bailiff had come here to-day, as I expected, your culpable neglect of duty would have placed us both in the hands of justice.  Fortunately the visit will not be made before noon to-morrow.  As your negligence has had no evil consequences, I fully pardon you, upon condition that you leave the city before sunrise, and that you travel without stopping until you reach the Rhine.”

“Never fear this time, signor,” replied Julio.  “I will pass the night here, and at early dawn I will be beyond the city gate.  In the first village I will buy a horse, and I will make such speed that he who would catch me must needs have wings.”

He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, and said: 

“I am overpowered by fatigue and sleep.  If you have no other directions to give, permit me, signor, to go to bed, that I may be ready for the morning.”

“Then I may rely upon you, Julio?”

“Have no anxiety about my journey; the rising sun will not find me at Antwerp.”

“Are you certain?”

“As certain as I am that a halter hangs over my head, and over yours something quite as disagreeable.”

This jest of his servant made Turchi convulsively contract his lips, but he restrained any expression of feeling, and arose, saying: 

“Julio, would you like a glass of good Malmsey?”

“Ah, signor,” replied the servant, “I was just thinking that a cup of Malmsey would relieve my parched throat, when, lo! my desire finds an echo in your heart.”

“One single glass-a parting bumper.”

“One or many, signor, as you wish-either will be welcome; but the excellent wine locked in the cupboard of your room will be particularly acceptable.”

“Well, Julio, come with me, and we will drink to the happy termination of your journey.”

He arose, traversed a passage, and ascended to the upper story.  The servant followed him staggering, and trying to steady himself by the wall.

Having reached his bed-room, Turchi drew a second chair to the table, and said: 

“Sit down, Julio; here is a bottle already opened.  If I did not fear its effects, we would empty it in honor of your departure.”

Julio sat down, and held the bottle before the lamp.

“Bah!” he exclaimed, “it only contains about four glasses.  You need not trouble yourself about that quantity.”

Signor Turchi took two large glasses from the cupboard, placed them on the table, and filled their to the brim.

“A pleasant journey to you, Julio,” he said, “and may you arrive safely at your destination.”

They both emptied their glasses at one draught, but the servant pushed his glass to his master, saying: 

“Oh, the divine liquor! it is a cooling balm to my burning throat.  One more glass, signor, I beg you.”

Simon filled the glasses again, and said: 

“Yes, but on condition that you wait awhile before drinking it.”

Hoping that his obedience might procure him a third glass, Julio resisted the temptation to gratify himself at once.

In the meantime, Turchi contemplated his servant with a peculiar expression.  There was a malicious sparkle in his eye, and a smile of triumph on his lips.  He evidently had some purpose in thus watching Julio; but what could be his secret design?

At last he pretended that he was about to take the wine, but by a quick movement he upset it.

With an exclamation of impatience he raised the glass, and said: 

“It is a sin to spill such wine.  Now I have no more in which to drink your health.  Get another bottle, Julio, from the cupboard; it is perhaps the last time that we shall drink together.  On the third shelf, the bottle with the long neck.”

Julio arose with difficulty from his chair, and staggered to the cupboard.

Simon Turchi thrust his hand in his doublet, and drew out a very small phial.  He hastily poured nearly the whole contents into Julio’s glass, and immediately concealed the phial; and although he trembled in every limb, he said, calmly: 

“A little higher, Julio-to the left; that is the right bottle.”

The servant brought the bottle to his master, who uncorked it; but as he was about to pour out the wine, he said: 

“Empty your glass, Julio; this is a different wine, and the mixture would spoil both.”

Julio drank the wine, but no sooner had he swallowed it than he exclaimed: 

“What was in my glass?  It had a strange, bitter taste.  Did you put poison in it?”

“What a silly idea!” said Turchi, turning pale.

“You are capable of such a deed, signor.”

“The lees gave the bad taste, Julio.  Take another glass, and it will pass away.”

Emptying his glass again, Julio said: 

“You are right; it is gone.  I never tasted anything in my life more disagreeable.”

Turchi watched his servant narrowly.  With assumed carelessness he said: 

“Take care, Julio, to be up by daybreak.  Go on foot to the village of Lierre; buy a good horse there, and make all possible haste to reach Diest; that is the shortest route, and you will be more likely to escape notice than on the highway.  Once in Cologne, you are out of danger; but be careful not to remain there.  Merchants from Antwerp frequently visit that city; you might possibly be recognized and arrested.  You must leave the territories of the emperor.  When the affair is forgotten, and when by my marriage with Miss Van de Werve I will have acquired a considerable fortune, I will send for you, and you will live with me as a friend rather than a servant.  You shall spend your days in pleasure, and you will never have cause to regret what you have done for me.  But, Julio, you do not answer?  Is not such a fate desirable?”

“I am overpowered by sleep,” stammered Julio, almost unintelligibly.

A triumphant smile flitted across Turchi’s face.

“To-morrow at two o’clock,” he continued, “the officers of justice will make a domiciliary visit here, but the bailiff will permit no search which intimates a suspicion.  Since you have filled the cellar with fire-wood and empty casks, the bailiff will be satisfied that all is right.  Perhaps, Julio, I may be able to recall you in two or three months.”

Julio’s head had fallen upon the table, but from time to time he started and muttered some indistinct words, showing that he was not in a deep sleep.  Without once removing his eye from him, Simon continued to speak, although he was convinced that Julio no longer heard his words.

Suddenly Julio groaned.  His head and limbs fell as though he had been struck by death; but the heaving of the chest and the deep scarlet of the cheeks proved that he was in a heavy sleep.

Simon quietly contemplated him for a while longer with a smile of satisfaction.  Then he arose, approached his servant, shook him violently, and cried out: 

“Julio, Julio, wake up!”

Julio did not stir.

“It succeeds according to my wishes,” he said.  “The poison is doing its work.  He is deaf and insensible; he reposes in an eternal sleep.  Life will be extinguished by degrees until sleep makes way for death.  But I must not tarry.  I must act quickly and forget nothing.  And first the money!”

He searched Julio’s pocket, and found in it one hundred and twenty crowns.  After counting them on the table, he exclaimed: 

“Eighty crowns spent already!  It is impossible.  He has either lost them at the gaming-table, or been robbed while he was sleeping in the tavern.”

Still doubtful, he examined his garments, and found in a purse under his girdle the twenty crowns which he had destined for his mother.

“Ah, ah!” said Simon, laughing; “I had not all; I hear the sound of gold.”

He put the twenty crowns with the rest of the money, and having satisfied himself that no more remained on the person of Julio, he was about to transfer the crowns to his pocket, when a sudden idea occurred to his mind.

“If I leave all this money on his person, they might think he had been paid to commit the deed; if I leave nothing, there will be no reason to conclude that he killed the Signor Geronimo to rob him.  I wonder how much money Geronimo generally carried about him.  I should suppose five or six crowns, or perhaps ten.  I will leave six crowns and all the small change.  And the keys?  He must keep them, or, of course, he could not have entered without my knowledge.  But should he be roused to consciousness by the death-agony, he might have sufficient strength to get out.  I will leave him all the keys but that of the outer building.  Iron bars render the place secure; he could not even enter the garden.  Now I will put the phial in his doublet-no, in the pocket of his girdle; it will be as easily found.  I will remove the bottles and everything which could indicate the presence of two persons.”

He locked up the bottles and glasses, arranged the chairs, and wiped up the wine which had been spilled on the table and the floor.

While thus engaged, he muttered to himself: 

“I must not remain longer.  I myself must go to the bailiff and accuse Julio of the murder.  Shall I go this evening?  No; they might come and find him alive, and a powerful antidote might perhaps rouse him from sleep.  To-morrow, then-to-morrow morning.  But how shall I explain the affair?  When and how did he reveal his crime?  Night will suggest a means.  All is done.  I will go home and appear calm and cheerful.”

He threw his cloak around his shoulders, took the lamp from the table, and walked to the door.  There he stopped for a moment to contemplate his victim and precipitately descended the staircase.  At the foot of the steps he extinguished the light, traversed the garden, opened the gate, and disappeared in the darkness.