Mr. Van de Werve joined them, and after the first salutations said to the old Deodati:  “I am happy to present to you my friend, the Signor Simon Turchi, who is at the head of the house of the Buonvisi, and who frequently does me the honor to visit me.”

“Ah!  I know him well,” said Deodati, cordially taking Simon’s hand.  “The signor is from Lucca, and the son of an esteemed friend.”

“You are welcome this side of the Alps, Signor Deodati,” replied Simon Turchi.  “My father often spoke of your mutual friendship.  May God grant you prosperity in Brabant!”

“I am under many obligations to you, signor,” replied the old Deodati, “for the affectionate interest you have shown in my nephew.  That my business affairs have been as well transacted in this country as though I had been here myself, I am indebted to your experience and wise counsels.  I know from Geronimo’s letters that he is sensible of the favor and deeply grateful for it.”

Simon Turchi was about to disclaim the praise bestowed upon him, but the carriage drew near, and Mr. Van de Werve said: 

“I hope, signor, that you will honor us with your company this evening.  We will pass together a few hours with our noble guest.”

Simon excused himself, saying that some important commercial affairs demanded his attention; but as Mary and Geronimo urged him to accept the invitation, he promised to see them, at least for a short time.

They bade adieu as the carriage drove out of the gate of the dock-yard.

Simon Turchi followed it with his eyes, immovable as a statue, until the sound of the rolling wheels was lost in the distance.  Then he convulsively crossed his arms and dropped his head, as though the certainty of a terrible misfortune had overwhelmed him.

He remained a long time plunged in thought; but he was startled from his reverie by a vehicle which dashed along near him, and by the call of the driver warning him of his danger.  He stepped aside and looked around him, as though seeking a way of escape from the wharf and the crowd of workmen.  He walked slowly towards the church of Saint Walburga, and around the wall enclosing the cemetery.  He entered, wandered awhile among the tombs, until reaching an obscure spot, where he was concealed by an angle of the church, he paused.

He pressed his brow with his hands, as if to shut out painful thoughts; the scar on his face frequently changed color, and at intervals his whole frame shook with emotion.  At last, as if his reflections had assumed a determined form, he muttered: 

“The arm-chair? it is not completed!  And then he would be too late.  A dagger, a sword, an assassin lying in wait?  If Julio were only more courageous; but he is a cowardly boaster.  Why did I take into my service such a poltroon?  He would not dare run the risk of striking a fatal blow; but I can force him to it, force him even to be bold.  I need but pronounce his real name; but the murder of a friend is a frightful crime; and then, perhaps, to be discovered, betrayed—­to die on a scaffold like a common felon—­I, the head of the house of the Buonvisi!"[13]