170 EXTRACTS FROM FOREIGN JOURNALS. 



**Some love affair, probably." 



Van Mander was conveyed, by his desire, to the house of the Seigneur del 

 Castagno, who seemed anxious at the absence of his friend. The door opened, 

 and Van Mander was carried in, covered with blood. 



"O !" exclaimed Andre, "what a terrible accident;" and, weeping, he threw 

 himself on the body of the dying man. *' Weep not," said Van Mander, "your 

 kindness deprives death of its sting." Andrd appeared so much affected as to 

 be unable to speak. After moistening his parched lips with water, the suffer- 

 er, somewhat refreshed, observed, " Have I done harm to any one ? It was 

 not to rob me that the assassin struck the blow, for he fled immediately. In 

 my country the attack is made openly, and with the sword, but here the 

 dagger ! " 



Andre' would have called in a physician, but his friend prevented him, as- 

 suring him he was past human aid. A few minutes, and he breathed no more. 

 On the morrow, the splendid obsequies for the deceased, attended by all the 

 artists of Florence, attested the deep grief of the Seigneur Andrt^del Castagno, 

 who also erected a costly monument to the memory of the young stranger. 

 The whole city lauded the interest which he condescended to take in a 

 foreigner ; his celebrity increased, and the mother of Van Mander died 

 blessing the name of Andre. Yet all this fame and honour satisfied not the 

 Seigneur del Castagno. He was evidently suffering from some concealed re- 

 morse; his admirers said he had never forgotten the death of the young 

 Fleming; his piety passed into a proverb, and he was called rami cle Vetran- 

 ger — the foreigner's friend. 



Grief failed not to hasten the end of Andrd. His health declined visibly ; 

 at length he could no longer handle his brushes. The physicians called in 

 by his friends were refused admittance ; he wished to die, for life was to him 

 but a horrible punishment. Finally, feeling his approaching dissolution, he 

 collected about him all his friends, and thus addressed them : — 



" O you ! whom I once called my friends, I am dying. I am too culpable to 

 hope for pardon on earth or in heaven ; still I feel that the avowal of my crime 

 renders my last moments less painful. Many years ago, I received into my 

 house a young foreigner who fell by the hand of an assassin — I am that assassin. 

 "Was it not infamous to stab one who had eaten at my table — whom I had 

 called my brother ? God would not be just were he to pardon so heinous an 

 offence !" 



A feverish strength sustained the dying man ; he raised himself in bed, as 

 if to escape from a frightful vision, and fell back motionless. The attendants 



departed in silence, a priest alone remaining to pray over the corpse When 



this awful truth was known, the senate of Florence ordered the name of Andrd 

 del Castagno to be struck out from the records of the city. His pictures 

 were publicly burnt, his ashes were scattered before the winds, and his name 

 was held up to universal execration — Trandated and abridged from Le Con- 

 sfituiionnel, Journal Politique et Litteraire. 



