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It
was
now
the
customary
hour
of
his
daily
interview
with
Beatrice
.
Before
descending
into
the
garden
,
Giovanni
failed
not
to
look
at
his
figure
in
the
mirror
,
—
a
vanity
to
be
expected
in
a
beautiful
young
man
,
yet
,
as
displaying
itself
at
that
troubled
and
feverish
moment
,
the
token
of
a
certain
shallowness
of
feeling
and
insincerity
of
character
.
He
did
gaze
,
however
,
and
said
to
himself
that
his
features
had
never
before
possessed
so
rich
a
grace
,
nor
his
eyes
such
vivacity
,
nor
his
cheeks
so
warm
a
hue
of
superabundant
life
.
"
At
least
,
"
thought
he
,
"
her
poison
has
not
yet
insinuated
itself
into
my
system
.
I
am
no
flower
to
perish
in
her
grasp
.
"
With
that
thought
he
turned
his
eyes
on
the
bouquet
,
which
he
had
never
once
laid
aside
from
his
hand
.
A
thrill
of
indefinable
horror
shot
through
his
frame
on
perceiving
that
those
dewy
flowers
were
already
beginning
to
droop
;
they
wore
the
aspect
of
things
that
had
been
fresh
and
lovely
yesterday
.
Giovanni
grew
white
as
marble
,
and
stood
motionless
before
the
mirror
,
staring
at
his
own
reflection
there
as
at
the
likeness
of
something
frightful
.
He
remembered
Baglioni
’
s
remark
about
the
fragrance
that
seemed
to
pervade
the
chamber
.
It
must
have
been
the
poison
in
his
breath
!
Then
he
shuddered
—
shuddered
at
himself
.
Recovering
from
his
stupor
,
he
began
to
watch
with
curious
eye
a
spider
that
was
busily
at
work
hanging
its
web
from
the
antique
cornice
of
the
apartment
,
crossing
and
recrossing
the
artful
system
of
interwoven
lines
—
as
vigorous
and
active
a
spider
as
ever
dangled
from
an
old
ceiling
.
Giovanni
bent
towards
the
insect
,
and
emitted
a
deep
,
long
breath
.
The
spider
suddenly
ceased
its
toil
;
the
web
vibrated
with
a
tremor
originating
in
the
body
of
the
small
artisan
.
Again
Giovanni
sent
forth
a
breath
,
deeper
,
longer
,
and
imbued
with
a
venomous
feeling
out
of
his
heart
:
he
knew
not
whether
he
were
wicked
,
or
only
desperate
.
The
spider
made
a
convulsive
gripe
with
his
limbs
and
hung
dead
across
the
window
.
"
Accursed
!
accursed
!
"
muttered
Giovanni
,
addressing
himself
.
"
Hast
thou
grown
so
poisonous
that
this
deadly
insect
perishes
by
thy
breath
?
"
At
that
moment
a
rich
,
sweet
voice
came
floating
up
from
the
garden
.
"
Giovanni
!
Giovanni
!
It
is
past
the
hour
!
Why
tarriest
thou
?
Come
down
!
"
"
Yes
,
"
muttered
Giovanni
again
.
"
She
is
the
only
being
whom
my
breath
may
not
slay
!
Would
that
it
might
!
"
He
rushed
down
,
and
in
an
instant
was
standing
before
the
bright
and
loving
eyes
of
Beatrice
.
A
moment
ago
his
wrath
and
despair
had
been
so
fierce
that
he
could
have
desired
nothing
so
much
as
to
wither
her
by
a
glance
;
but
with
her
actual
presence
there
came
influences
which
had
too
real
an
existence
to
be
at
once
shaken
off
:
recollections
of
the
delicate
and
benign
power
of
her
feminine
nature
,
which
had
so
often
enveloped
him
in
a
religious
calm
;
recollections
of
many
a
holy
and
passionate
outgush
of
her
heart
,
when
the
pure
fountain
had
been
unsealed
from
its
depths
and
made
visible
in
its
transparency
to
his
mental
eye
;
recollections
which
,
had
Giovanni
known
how
to
estimate
them
,
would
have
assured
him
that
all
this
ugly
mystery
was
but
an
earthly
illusion
,
and
that
,
whatever
mist
of
evil
might
seem
to
have
gathered
over
her
,
the
real
Beatrice
was
a
heavenly
angel
.
