creature, that the image now held up by Professor Baglioni looked
as strange and incredible as if it were not in accordance with
his own original conception. True, there were ugly recollections
connected with his first glimpses of the beautiful girl; he could
not quite forget the bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the
insect that perished amid the sunny air, by no ostensible agency
save the fragrance of her breath. These incidents, however,
dissolving in the pure light of her character, had no longer the
efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged as mistaken fantasies,
by whatever testimony of the senses they might appear to be
substantiated. There is something truer and more real than what
we can see with the eyes and touch with the finger. On such
better evidence had Giovanni founded his confidence in Beatrice,
though rather by the necessary force of her high attributes than
by any deep and generous faith on his part. But now his spirit
was incapable of sustaining itself at the height to which the
early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down,
grovelling among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure
whiteness of Beatrice's image. Not that he gave her up; he did
but distrust. He resolved to institute some decisive test that
should satisfy him, once for all, whether there were those
dreadful peculiarities in her physical nature which could not be
supposed to exist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul.
His eyes, gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the
lizard, the insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness, at
the distance of a few paces, the sudden blight of one fresh and
healthful flower in Beatrice's hand, there would be room for no
further question. With this idea he hastened to the florist's and
purchased a bouquet that was still gemmed with the morning
dew-drops.