"Do you like this statue?"
"Yes, very much; and that is the reason I am copying it."
"It seems," I said, as I saw he did not recognise me, "to be a modern work, does it not?"
"Certainly; so modern that the author is still living—though one might say that he is dead."
"What! I do not understand you. How can one say that he is dead when he is living?" and I could scarcely restrain the wonder and emotion that these singular words created in me.
"It is indeed a very sad fact, and is very much talked about; but it seems that the poor artist, so young and full of talent——"
FILIPPO GUALTERIO.
"Well?" I interrupted him suddenly.
"It seems that he is going mad."
I was silent. These last words wounded me to the quick, and I remembered that during my past sufferings I too had a fear lest I should lose my head, but I never suspected that this idea had entered into the minds of others. I went out of the room without even saluting the young foreigner, and walked up and down in the open air, going over in my memory my past suffering, my voyage to Naples, the cure I had undergone, and my re-establishment in health both in body and spirit, and at last I became tranquil, and almost smiled in recalling this strange conversation with the young foreigner.