Slowly, slowly, Andrea went up, standing still every two or three steps,
as if he were dragging a terrible weight after him. He went into his
rooms and threw himself on his bed, where he remained till a quarter to
three. At a quarter to three he got up and went out. He turned into the
Via Sistina, on through the Via Quattro Fontane, passed the Palazzo
Barberini and stopped before a book-stall to wait for three o'clock. The
bookseller, a little wrinkled, dried-up old man, like a decrepit
tortoise, offered him books, taking down his choicest volumes one by
one, and spreading them out under his eyes, speaking all the time in an
insufferable nasal monotone. Three o'clock would strike directly; Andrea
looked at the titles of the books, keeping an eye on the gates of the
palace, while the voice of the bookseller mingled confusedly with the
loud thumping of his heart.
A lady passed through the gates, went down the street towards the
piazza, got into a cab, and drove away through the Via del Tritone.
Andrea went home. There he threw himself once more on his bed, and
waited till Maria should come, keeping himself in a state of such
complete immobility, that he seemed not to be suffering any more.
At five Maria came.
'Do you know,' she said, panting, 'I can stay with you the whole
evening--till to-morrow. It will be our first and last night of love.
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