voice more and more sorrowful, this cry: 'Botticellina! Botticellina!' He rose from the triple
row of cushions upon which he was lying, and
walked back and forth in the studio, feverishly.
After some minutes of anxious agitation, he said:
'Botticellina was Mine. Henceforth must she be
Thine?' 'She shall be Ours!' replied the poet,
imperiously; 'for God has chosen you to be the
point of suture for this severed soul which is She
and which is I! If not, Botticellina possesses the
magic pearl that dissipates dreams, I the dagger
that delivers from corporeal chains. If you refuse,
we shall love each other in death.' And he added,
in a deep tone that resounded through the studio
like a voice from the abyss: 'Perhaps it would be
better so.' 'No,' cried the painter, you shall
live. Botticellina shall be Thine, as she has been
Mine. I will tear my flesh to shreads, I will tear
my heart from my breast, I will break my head
against the wall, but my friend shall be happy.
I can suffer. Suffering, too, is voluptuousness, in
another form!' 'And a voluptuousness more
powerful, more bitter, more fierce than any other!'
exclaimed John-Giotto Farfadetti, ecstatically;
'I envy your fate, do you know? As for me,
I really believe that I shall die either of the joy of my love or of the sorrow of my friend. The hour
has come. Adieu!' He rose, like an archangel.
At that moment the drapery moved, opening and
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