He spoke in his own language, beginning each sentence with an
interrogative intonation and ending with a monotonous irritating drop of
the voice. Certain words lacerated Andrea's ear like the sound of filing
iron or the shriek of a steel knife over a pane of glass.
And the drawings passed in review before him, appalling pictures which
revealed the terrible fever that had taken hold upon the artist's hand,
and the terrible madness that possessed his brain.
'Now here,' said Lord Heathfield, 'is the work which inspired these
masterpieces. A priceless book--rarest of the rare! You are not
acquainted with Daniel Maclisius?'
He handed Andrea the treatise: _De verberatione amatoria_. He had warmed
more and more to his subject. His bald temples were flushed, and the
veins stood out on his great forehead; every minute his mouth twitched a
little convulsively and his hands, those detestable hands, were
perpetually on the move, while his arms retailed their paralytic
immobility. The unclean beast in him appeared in all its brazen
ugliness and ferocity.
'Mumps! Mumps! are you alone?'
It was Elena's voice. She knocked softly at one of the doors.
'Mumps!'
Andrea started violently; the blood rushed to his head and drew a veil
of mist before his eyes, and there was a roar in his ears as if he were
going to be seized with vertigo.
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