fe; it is a hell."

"Poor Reanda! Poor Reanda!" repeated Francesca, softly.

"I do not pity myself," he said scornfully. "I have deserved it, and
much more. But I am human. If it goes on a little longer, you may take
me to Santo Spirito, for I am going mad. At least I should be there in
holy peace. After her, the madmen would all seem doctors of wisdom. Do
you know what will happen this evening? I go home. 'Where have you
been?' she will ask. 'At the Palazzetto.' 'What have you been doing?'
'Painting--it is my trade.' 'Was Donna Francesca there?' 'Of course. She
is mistress in her own house.' 'And what did you talk of?' 'How should I
remember? We talked.' Then it will begin. It will be an inferno, as it
always is. 'Leave hope behind, all ye that enter here!' I can say it, if
ever man could! You are right to pity me. Before it is finished you will
have reason to pity me still more. Let us hope it may finish soon.
Either San Lorenzo, or Santo Spirito--with the mad or with the dead."

"Poor Reanda!"

"Yes--poor Reanda, if you like. People envy me, they say I am a great
artist. If they think so, let them say it. It seems to them that I am
somebody." He laughed, almost hysterically. "Somebody! Stuff for Santo
Spirito! That is all she has left me in two years--not yet two years."

"Do not talk of Santo Spirito," said Francesca. "You shall not go mad.
When you are unhappy, think of our friendship and of all the hours you
have here every day." She hesitated and seemed to make an effort over
herself. "But it is impossible that it should be all over, so hopelessly
and so soon. She is nervous, perhaps. The climate does not suit her--"

Reanda laughed wildly, for he was rapidly losing all control of himself.

"Therefore I should take her away and go and live somewhere else!" he
cried. "That would be the end! I should tear her to pieces with my
hands--"

"Hush, hush! You are talking madly--"

"I know it. There is reason. It will end badly, one of these days,
unless I end first, and that may happen also. Without you it would have
happened long ago. You are the good angel in my life, the one friend God
has sent me in my tormented existence, the one star in my black sky. Be
my friend still, always, for ever and ever, and I shall live forever
only to be your friend. As for love--the devil and his demons will know
what to do with it--they will find their account in it. They have lent
it, and they will take their payment in blood