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It was in Florence that Baronte at last ran to earth that terrific secret which for ten long months had eluded and maddened him. Here, in the summer of 1819, was present once again that fiend incarnate of melody, that monster Paganini -- and more astounding, more inexplicable than ever. He had taken the city captive as utterly as any Marmaldo; he drew its people, extravagantly laughing and sobbing, in the wake of his devil's music. And Florence was Baronte's native town, and it was here, he had felt, that his quest must end, though even at the gates of Death. And, behold! Fate, even in the shadow of his reason's overthrow, had vouchsafed him at length and at least an approximate solution of the mystery.
What mystery, then, and what secret? Why those that touched upon the source of the Maestro's superhuman powers -- nothing more nor less. But, for whatever was their ethical value, they had haunted Baronte's soul for full ten months -- ever since that night, in fact, when he had first heard Paganini play in the Scala Theatre at Milan. And from that night onwards he had followed his evil genius, as he regarded the man, from town to town, feeding yet hungering, drinking yet thirsting, loathing and lusting at once.