The old documents were agreeably familiar to his eye, and he read and re-read them with increasing satisfaction, comparing them carefully, and chuckling to himself each time that he reached the bottom of the sheet upon the copy, where there had been no room to introduce that famous clause.  But for that accident, he reflected, he would have undoubtedly made the insertion upon the originals, and the latter would be now no longer in his possession.  He did not quite understand why he derived such pleasure from reading the writing so often, nor why, when the surrounding objects in the room were clear and distinct to his eyes, the crabbed characters should every now and then seem to move of themselves and to run into each other from right to left.  Possibly the emotions of the day had strained his vision.  He looked up and saw the bottle.  An irresistible desire seized him to taste the liquor again, even if he drank but a drop.  The spirits wet his lips while he was still inwardly debating whether it were wise to drink or not.  As he returned the cork to its place he felt a sudden revival within him of all he had experienced before.  His face was warm, his fingers tingled.  He took up one of the deeds with a firm hand and settled himself comfortably in his chair.  But he could not read it through again.  He laughed quietly at his folly.  Did he not know every word by heart?  He must occupy himself with planning, with arranging the details of his future.  When that was done he could revel in the thought of wealth and rest and satisfied vanity.

To his surprise, his thoughts did not flow as connectedly as he had expected.  He could not help thinking of the dead man downstairs, not indeed with any terror, not fearing discovery for himself, but with a vague wonderment that made his mind feel empty.  Turn over the matter as he would, he could not foresee connectedly what was likely to happen when the murder was known.  There was no sequence in his imaginings, and he longed nervously for the moment when everything should be settled.  The restlessness that had brought him up to his room demanded some sort of action to quiet it.  He would willingly have gone out to see his friend, the little apothecary who lived near the Ponte Quattro Capi.  It would be a relief to talk to some one, to hear the sound of a human voice.  But a remnant of prudence restrained him.  It was not very likely that he should be suspected; indeed, if he behaved prudently nothing was more improbable.  To leave the house at such a time, however, would be the height of folly, unless it could be proved that he had gone out some time before the deed could have been done.  The porter was vigilant, and Meschini almost always exchanged a few words with him as he passed through the gates.  He would certainly note the time of the librarian’s exit more or less accurately.  Moreover, the body might have been found already, and even now the gendarmes might be downstairs.  The latter consideration determined him to descend once more to the library.  A slight chill passed over him as he closed the door of his room behind him.