After having accompanied Deodati to his residence, Simon Turchi went to
his own dwelling near the bridge De la Vigne.
He was greatly excited, either by extreme anxiety or by a feverish
impatience; for he descended to the ground-floor, entered his office,
pretended to be looking for some papers, went up stairs again, paced the
room, opened the window, looked up and down the street, closed the window
petulantly, and at last, stamping his foot, he angrily exclaimed: "The miserable gamester! he is in some tavern drinking, gambling, amusing
himself, while I am here on burning coals, almost overpowered by anxiety
and terror! Julio, Julio, if I escape the fate which now threatens me, I
will have my revenge for your ingratitude!"
Again he went to the window, and again he was disappointed. Thoroughly
discouraged, he threw himself upon a chair, heaved a heavy sigh, and after
a moment's silence exclaimed in accents of despair: "Alas! alas! is it then true that my crime cannot remain concealed? Who
was it, to my great misfortune, who sent the Dominican brother just to the
spot to meet Geronimo, and thus furnished the bailiff with a clue to the
murder? Who put the Jewish banker on his track, so that the constables
might be led to my garden? Who suggested the idea to the bailiff to search
the cellars? Was it chance? But chance is blind, and does not proceed
with such precision to the fulfilment of a purpose. How frightful if God
himself conducted justice! if the Supreme Judge, who cannot be deceived,
has condemned me to an infamous death! How vain then all hope, all effort
to escape!"
Overpowered by these reflections, Simon Turchi bowed his head upon his
breast; his hands worked convulsively, and at intervals heart-rending
sighs escaped him.
Confusedly arose before him a horrible vision: he saw the scaffold
erected; he beheld the sword of the executioner glitter in the sunlight;
he heard the shouts of the populace calling down the vengeance of heaven
upon his guilty head and devoting his name to eternal infamy; he seemed to
feel the mysterious stroke from the uplifted blade, for his frame shook
violently, and he uttered a piercing cry of anguish.
He thrust his hand into his doublet, and drew from it slowly a small phial
half filled with a yellow liquid, and held it before him with a shudder of
disgust and horror.
"Poison, deadly poison!" he muttered. "He who has the courage to take a
few drops will sleep a sweet sleep from which there is no awakening. And
is this my only refuge from the ignominy of the scaffold? Instead of
wealth and happiness, is a miserable death to be the price of my crime?
No, no; I must chase away these horrible thoughts."