So saying, he drew the bottle from his pocket and applied it to his lips. He had hoped that it would not be necessary, but he was unable to do without it very long, his nerves being broken down by the quantity he had taken on the previous night. Colaisso looked on in silence, more puzzled than ever. The librarian seemed to be revived by the dose, and spoke more cheerfully after it.
"A most terrible tragedy," he said. "The prince was murdered yesterday afternoon. I could not speak of it to you at once."
"Murdered?" exclaimed the apothecary in amazement. "And by whom?"
"That is the mystery. He was found dead in his study. I will tell you all I know."
Meschini communicated the story to his friend in a disjointed fashion, interspersing his narrative with many comments intended to give himself courage to proceed. He told the tale with evident reluctance, but he could not avoid the necessity. If Tiberio Colaisso read the account in the paper that evening, as he undoubtedly would, he would wonder why his companion had not been the first to relate the catastrophe; and this wonder might turn into a suspicion. It would have been better not to come to the apothecary's, but since he found himself there he could not escape from informing him of what had happened.
"It is very strange," said the chemist, when he had heard all. Meschini thought he detected a disagreeable look in his eyes.
"It is, indeed," he answered. "I am made ill by it. See how my hand trembles. I am cold and hot."
"You have been drinking too much," said Colaisso suddenly, and with a certain brutality that startled his friend. "You are not sober. You must have taken a great deal last night. A libation to the dead, I suppose, in the manner of the ancients."
Meschini winced visibly and began to shuffle the cards, while he attempted to smile to hide his embarrassment.
"I was not well yesterday—at least—I do not know what was the matter—a headache, I think, nothing more. And then, this awful catastrophe—horrible! My nerves are unstrung. I can scarcely speak."