ed from the shock, he had not withdrawn the invitations, hoping
that the social gathering might help to dissipate painful thoughts.

At the appointed hour the dwelling of Mr. Van de Werve was in a blaze of
light. The large double door was thrown open, and in the vast hall were
crowds of domestics, the attendants of the guests who had already arrived.

The large parlor was filled with persons of different conditions and ages.
There were, however, only men present, for this evening was by a previous
arrangement to be devoted to artists, men of letters, and notable men of
commerce.

The first salutations had been exchanged among the guests of Mr. Van de
Werve; they had separated according to their pleasure in different groups,
and were engaged in cordial and familiar conversation.

Five or six of the more aged were seated near a table examining some new
works which excited their admiration; others, whose more simple attire
proclaimed them to be artists, were showing each other their designs;
another party, evidently formed of young noblemen, surrounded Geronimo,
and were asking particulars of the recent attempt upon his life.

At the end of the room, not far from the fireplace, were collected the
foreigners who were engaged in commerce at Antwerp. Although they had
assembled for amusement, they were conversing, through habit, upon the
expected arrival of vessels, and the price of gold and different kinds of
merchandise. Among these foreigners was to be seen every description of
costume, and every variety of tongue could be heard. The Spaniard found
himself beside a native of Lucca, the Portuguese near the Florentine, the
English with the Genoese, the German next to the Venetian; and, as on
Change at Antwerp, they found means to understand each other.

Mr. Van de Werve had at first remained near the door in order to welcome
his guests as they entered; but supposing that the greater part of those
invited had arrived, he left this place and was walking from group to
group, joining in conversation for a few moments, and saying some pleasant
words to each.

The old Deodati had seated himself in an arm-chair apart. So many had
welcomed him on his arrival at Antwerp, and he had been the object of so
much polite attention, that, being fatigued from standing and talking, he
was now seeking some repose.

By his side was Simon Turchi, conversing familiarly and in a low tone with
the old man. The hypocrite feigned an extraordin