Giovanni, after a short walk, found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, who smiled, and was evidently eager to attract his attention.

“Signor! signor!” whispered she. “Listen, signor! There is a private entrance into the garden!”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about. “A private entrance into Dr. Rappaccini’s garden?”

“Hush! hush! not so loud!” whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over his mouth. “Yes; into the doctor’s garden, where you may see all his fine plants. Many young men in Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers.”

Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.

“Show me the way,” said he.

His conversation with Baglioni made him think that this might be connected with the intrigue, in which Dr. Rappaccini was involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, it did not stop him. The instant that he was aware of the possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed necessary to do so. It did not matter whether she were angel or demon; he was within her sphere; and yet, strange to say, there came across him a sudden doubt whether this intense interest was really so deep and positive; whether it was not the fantasy of a young man.

He paused, hesitated, but again went on. His guide led him to a door, through which, as it was opened, he saw leaves, and sunshine glimmering among them. Giovanni stepped and stood beneath his own window in Dr. Rappaccini’s garden.

He looked around the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and, seeing that he was alone, began a critical observation of the plants.

The look of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. Several also might shock one by an artificial appearance indicating that there had been a mixture of various vegetable species, that the production was no longer of God’s making, but of man’s fancy. They were probably the result of experiment. Giovanni recognized two or three plants that he knew to be poisonous. While busy with these thoughts he heard the rustling of a silk dress and, turning, saw Beatrice emerging from beneath the portal.

She came along the path and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but also a simple and kind expression of pleasure.

“You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor,” said Beatrice, with a smile, meaning the bouquet which he had thrown her from the window. “It is no marvel, therefore, if you have come to take a nearer view of my father’s rare collection. If he were here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs; for he has spent a lifetime in such studies, and this garden is his world.”

“And yourself, lady,” observed Giovanni, “they say, – you are skilled in growing plants with these rich blossoms and these perfumes. If you were my instructress, I should be a better pupil than if taught by Signor Rappaccini himself.”

“Do they say so?” asked Beatrice, with a pleasant laugh. “Do people say that I am skilled in my father’s science of plants? No; though I have grown up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their color and perfume. Signor, do not believe these stories about my science.”

“And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?” asked Giovanni, while the recollection of former scenes made him shrink.

“Forget what you may have fancied about me. But the words of Beatrice Rappaccini’s lips are true. You may believe them.”