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voice more and more sorrowful, this cry: ' Botti- cellina! 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