“God have mercy on him!” whined the librarian, trembling to his feet.  “He was the best of men, and is no doubt in glory!”

“No doubt,” replied San Giacinto drily.  He entertained opinions of his own upon the subject, and he did not like the man’s tone.  “No doubt,” he repeated.  “We will try and fulfil his wishes with regard to you.”

“Grazie, Eccelenza!” said Meschini with great humility, making horns with his fingers behind his back to ward off the evil eye, and edging away in the direction of the grand staircase.

San Giacinto returned to the door and paid no more attention to him.  Then Meschini almost ran down the stairs and did not slacken his speed until he found himself in the street.  The cold air of the winter’s day revived him, and he found himself walking rapidly in the direction of the Ponte Quattro Capi.  He generally took that direction when he went out without any especial object, for his friend Tiberio Colaisso, the poor apothecary, had his shop upon the little island of Saint Bartholomew, which is connected with the shores of the river by a double bridge, whence the name, “the bridge of four heads.”

Meschini paused and looked over the parapet at the yellow swirling water.  The eddies seemed to take queer shapes and he watched them for a long time.  He had a splitting headache, of the kind which is made more painful by looking at quickly moving objects, which, at the same time, exercise an irresistible fascination over the eye.  Almost unconsciously he compared his own life to the river—­ turbid, winding, destroying.  The simile was incoherent, like most of his fancies on that day, but it served to express a thought, and he began to feel an odd sympathy for the muddy stream, such as perhaps no one had ever felt before him.  But as he looked he grew dizzy, and drew back from the parapet.  There must have been something strange in his face, for a man who was passing looked at him curiously and asked whether he were ill.  He shook his head with a sickly smile and passed on.

The apothecary was standing idly at his door, waiting for a custom that rarely came his way.  He was a cadaverous man, about fifty years of age, with eyes of an uncertain colour set deep in his head.  An ill-kept, grizzled beard descended upon his chest, and gave a certain wildness to his appearance.  A very shabby green smoking cap, trimmed with tarnished silver lace, was set far back upon his head, displaying a wrinkled forehead, much heightened by baldness, but of proportions that denoted a large and active brain.  That he took snuff in great quantities was apparent.  Otherwise he was neither very dirty nor very clean, but his thumbs had that peculiar shape which seems to be the result of constantly rolling pills.  Meschini stopped before him.

“Sor Arnoldo, good-day,” said the chemist, scrutinising his friend’s face curiously.

“Good-day, Sor Tiberio,” replied the librarian.  “Will you let me come in for a little moment?” There seemed to be an attempt at a jest in the question, for the apothecary almost smiled.