be spoken, that he never stooped one inch from the high perch of his
incorrigible haughtiness. His hat stuck to that cage of cockchafers he
called his head, as though it had been nailed there. Mindful of the
advice I had received, and which amounted to a command, I refrained from
bowing. I should have liked to be on good terms with him, and felt
uncomfortable at the rudeness I was bound to display. Had he drawn his
sword upon me, I could have understood that his retractation had been
forced. But there was nothing in his stupid inurbanity to justify this
supposition. Who could have divined that he was planning a flight to
Stockholm, and that he would draw his sword upon me there and stab me
with words, while I remained at Venice?

LXII.

_A tragic accident, with a happy termination._

A few months after these occurrences, my brother Gasparo, who had fallen
ill of too much study and harassing cares, went to Padua to consult the
physicians of that famous university. Though we no longer shared the
same home, and had divided our patrimony, I always regarded him as my
friend and master. The news I received of his sad state of health, which
declined from bad to worse, in spite of the most skilful medical
assistance, caused me the gravest uneasiness.

One morning a gondolier in the service of Mme. Dolfin-Tron brought me a
letter which she had received from Professor Giovanni Marsili at Padua,
together with a note from his mistress. The note urgently begged me to
repair to her at once. The letter contained news of far more serious
import. From it I learned that my poor brother, whether oppressed by
dark and melancholical phantasies, or by the delirium of a burning fever
which attacked him, had thrown himself in a fit of exaltation from a
window into the Brenta. He had fallen with his chest upon a great stone;
and though he had been brought alive out of the river, he was
speechless, spat blood continually, and lay insensible, plunged in
profound lethargy, and consumed with a mortal fever, which left but
little hope of his survival.

In spite of my philosophy, the reading of this letter well-nigh deprived
me of my wits, and I ran in a state of distraction to that noble lady. I
found her stretched upon a sofa, drowned in tears. No sooner did she
cast eyes upon me than she rose, and rushed into my arms upon the point
of fainting. "Dear friend," she sobbed out, as soon as she found power
to speak, "go to Padua at once;