"Her father," continued Baglioni, "was not restrained by naturalaffection from offering up his child, in this horrible manner, asthe victim of his insane zeal for science. For- let us do him justice-he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in analembic. What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt, you areselected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result isto be death- perhaps a fate more awful still! Rappaccini, with what hecalls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate atnothing.""It is a dream!" muttered Giovanni to himself, "surely it is adream!""But, resumed the Professor, "be of good cheer, son of my friend!
It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly, we may even succeedin bringing back this miserable child within the limits of ordinarynature, from which her father's madness has estranged her. Behold thislittle silver vase! It was wrought by the hands of the renownedBenvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love-gift to the fairestdame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One little sip of thisantidote would have rendered the most virulent poisons of theBorgias innocuous. Doubt not that it will be as efficacious againstthose of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase, and the precious liquid withinit, on your Beatrice, and hopefully await the result."Baglioni laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver phial on thetable, and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effectupon the young man's mind.
"We will thwart Rappaccini yet!" thought he, chuckling tohimself, as he descended the stairs. "But, let us confess the truth ofhim, he is a wonderful man! a wonderful man indeed! A vile empiric,however, in his practice, and therefore not to be tolerated by thosewho respect the good old rules of the medical profession!"Throughout Giovanni's whole acquaintance with Beatrice, he hadoccasionally, as we have said, been haunted by dark surmises as to hercharacter. Yet, so thoroughly had she made herself felt by him as asimple, natural, most affectionate and guileless creature, that theimage now held up by Professor Baglioni, looked as strange andincredible, as if it were not in accordance with his own originalconception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with hisfirst glimpses of the beautiful girl; he could not quite forget thebouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perishedamid the sunny air, by no ostensible agency save the fragrance ofher breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the pure lightof her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but wereacknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of thesenses they might appear to be substantiated. There is something truerand more real, than what we can see with the eyes, and touch withthe finger. On such better evidence, had Giovanni founded hisconfidence in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of herhigh attributes, than by any deep and generous faith on his part. But,now, his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the height towhich the early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down,grovelling among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the purewhiteness of Beatrice's image. Not that he gave her up; he did butdistrust. He resolved to institute some decisive test that shouldsatisfy him, once for all, whether there were those dreadfulpeculiarities in her physical nature, which could not be supposed toexist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes, gazingdown afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect, andthe flowers. But if he could witness, at the distance of a fewpaces, the sudden blight of one fresh and healthful flower inBeatrice's hand, there would be room for no further question. Withthis idea, he hastened to the florist's, and purchased a bouquetthat 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 athis figure in the mirror; a vanity to be expected in a beautiful youngman, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment,the token of a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity ofcharacter. He did gaze, however, and said to himself, that hisfeatures had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes suchvivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life.
"At least," thought he, "her poison has not yet insinuated itselfinto my system. I am no flower to perish in her grasp!"With that thought, he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which hehad never once laid aside from his hand. A thrill of indefinablehorror shot through his frame, on perceiving that those dewy flowerswere already beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things thathad been fresh and lovely, yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble,and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his ownreflection there, as at the likeness of something frightful. Heremembered Baglioni's remark about the fragrance that seemed topervade 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, crossingand re-crossing the artful system of interwoven lines, as vigorous andactive a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni benttowards the insect, and emitted a deep, long breath. The spidersuddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor originatingin the body of the small artizan. Again Giovanni sent forth abreath, deeper, longer, and imbued with a venomous feeling out ofhis heart; he knew not whether he were wicked or only desperate. Thespider made a convulsive gripe with his limbs, and hung dead acrossthe window.
"Accursed! Accursed!" muttered Giovanni, addressing himself.
