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