mid
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.

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.