“Twenty-five years!  Dear me!  How the thought takes me back to my poor father!  Heaven bless him, he was a good man.  But, as I was saying, Meschini, you have been with us many years, and we have not done much for you.  No.  Do not protest!  I know your modesty, but one must be just before all things.  I think you draw fifteen scudi a month?  Yes.  I have a good memory, you see.  I occupy myself with the cares of my household.  But you are not so young as you were once, my friend, and your faithful services deserve to be rewarded.  Shall we say thirty scudi a month in future?  To continue all your life, even if—­heaven avert it—­you should ever become disabled from superintending the library—­yes, all your life.”

Meschini bowed as he sat in acknowledgment of so much generosity, and assumed a grateful expression suitable to the occasion.  In reality, his salary was of very little importance to him, as compared with what he realised from his illicit traffic in manuscripts.  But, like his employer, he was avaricious, and the prospect of three hundred and sixty scudi a year was pleasant to contemplate.  He bowed and smiled.

“I do not deserve so much liberality, Signor Principe,” he said.  “My poor services—­”

“Very far from poor, my dear friend, very far from poor,” interrupted Montevarchi.  “Moreover, if you will have confidence in me, you can do me a very great service indeed.  But it is indeed a very private matter.  You are a discreet man, however, and have few friends.  You are not given to talking idly of what concerns no one but yourself.”

“No, Excellency,” replied Meschini, laughing inwardly as he thought of the deceptions he had been practising with success during a quarter of a century.

“Well, well, this is a matter between ourselves, and one which, as you will see, will bring its own reward.  For although it might not pass muster in a court of law—­the courts you know, Meschini, are very sensitive about little things—­” he looked keenly at his companion, whose eyes were cast down.

“Foolishly sensitive,” echoed the librarian.

“Yes.  I may say that in the present instance, although the law might think differently of the matter, we shall be doing a good deed, redressing a great injustice, restoring to the fatherless his birthright, in a word fulfilling the will of Heaven, while perhaps paying little attention to the laws of man.  Man, my friend, is often very unjust in his wisdom.”

“Very.  I can only applaud your Excellency’s sentiments, which do justice to a man of heart.”

“No, no, I want no praise,” replied the prince in a tone of deprecation.  “What I need in order to accomplish this good action is your assistance and friendly help.  To whom should I turn, but to the old and confidential friend of the family?  To a man whose knowledge of the matter on hand is only equalled by his fidelity to those who have so long employed him?”