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A Romance of Two Worlds: A Novel

by Marie Corelli · English · Gutenberg #4394 · 575,331 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Romance of Two Worlds: A Novel

Author: Marie Corelli


        
Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4394]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.










A Romance of Two Worlds

A NOVEL.


BY

MARIE CORELLI,


Author of "Thelma," "Ardath," "Vendetta," Etc.




CONTENTS

          PROLOGUE
      I.  AN ARTIST'S STUDIO.
     II.  THE MYSTERIOUS POTION.
    III.  THREE VISIONS.
     IV.  A DANCE AND A PROMISE.
      V.  CELLINI'S STORY.
     VI.  THE HOTEL MARS AND ITS OWNER.
    VII.  ZARA AND PRINCE IVAN.
   VIII.  A SYMPHONY IN THE AIR.
     IX.  AN ELECTRIC SHOCK.
      X.  MY STRANGE DEPARTURE.
     XI.  A MINIATURE CREATION.
    XII.  SECRETS OF THE SUN AND MOON.
   XIII.  SOCIABLE CONVERSE.
    XIV.  THE ELECTRIC CREED.
     XV.  DEATH BY LIGHTNING.
    XVI.  A STRUGGLE FOR THE MASTERY.
   XVII.  CONCLUSION.
          APPENDIX




A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS.

PROLOGUE.


We live in an age of universal inquiry, ergo of universal scepticism.
The prophecies of the poet, the dreams of the philosopher and
scientist, are being daily realized--things formerly considered mere
fairy-tales have become facts--yet, in spite of the marvels of learning
and science that are hourly accomplished among us, the attitude of
mankind is one of disbelief. "There is no God!" cries one theorist; "or
if there be one, _I_ can obtain no proof of His existence!" "There is
no Creator!" exclaims another. "The Universe is simply a rushing
together of atoms." "There can be no immortality," asserts a third. "We
are but dust, and to dust we shall return." "What is called by
idealists the SOUL," argues another, "is simply the vital principle
composed of heat and air, which escapes from the body at death, and
mingles again with its native element. A candle when lit emits flame;
blow out the light, the flame vanishes--where? Would it not be madness
to assert the flame immortal? Yet the soul, or vital principle of human
existence, is no more than the flame of a candle."

If you propound to these theorists the eternal question WHY?--why is
the world in existence? why is there a universe? why do we live? why do
we think and plan? why do we perish at the last?--their grandiose reply
is, "Because of the Law of Universal Necessity." They cannot explain
this mysterious Law to themselves, nor can they probe deep enough to
find the answer to a still more tremendous WHY--namely, WHY, is there a
Law of Universal Necessity?--but they are satisfied with the result of
their reasonings, if not wholly, yet in part, and seldom try to search
beyond that great vague vast Necessity, lest their finite brains should
reel into madness worse than death. Recognizing, therefore, that in
this cultivated age a wall of scepticism and cynicism is gradually
being built up by intellectual thinkers of every nation against all
that treats of the Supernatural and Unseen, I am aware that my
narration of the events I have recently experienced will be read with
incredulity. At a time when the great empire of the Christian Religion
is being assailed, or politely ignored by governments and public
speakers and teachers, I realize to the fullest extent how daring is
any attempt to prove, even by a plain history of strange occurrences
happening to one's self, the actual existence of the Supernatural
around us; and the absolute certainty of a future state of being, after
the passage through that brief soul-torpor in which the body perishes,
known to us as Death.

In the present narration, which I have purposely called a "romance," I
do not expect to be believed, as I can only relate what I myself have
experienced. I know that men and women of to-day must have proofs, or
what they are willing to accept as proofs, before they will credit
anything that purports to be of a spiritual tendency;--something
startling--some miracle of a stupendous nature, such as according to
prophecy they are all unfit to receive. Few will admit the subtle
influence and incontestable, though mysterious, authority exercised
upon their lives by higher intelligences than their own--intelligences
unseen, unknown, but felt. Yes! felt by the most careless, the most
cynical; in the uncomfortable prescience of danger, the inner
forebodings of guilt--the moral and mental torture endured by those who
fight a protracted battle to gain the hardly-won victory in themselves
of right over wrong--in the thousand and one sudden appeals made
without warning to that compass of a man's life, Conscience--and in
those brilliant and startling impulses of generosity, bravery, and
self-sacrifice which carry us on, heedless of consequences, to the
performance of great and noble deeds, whose fame makes the whole world
one resounding echo of glory--deeds that we wonder at ourselves even in
the performance of them--acts of heroism in which mere life goes for
nothing, and the Soul for a brief space is pre-eminent, obeying blindly
the guiding influence of a something akin to itself, yet higher in the
realms of Thought.

There are no proofs as to why such things should be; but that they are,
is indubitable. The miracles enacted now are silent ones, and are
worked in the heart and mind of man alone. Unbelief is nearly supreme
in the world to-day. Were an angel to descend from heaven in the middle
of a great square, the crowd would think he had got himself up on
pulleys and wires, and would try to discover his apparatus. Were he, in
wrath, to cast destruction upon them, and with fire blazing from his
wings, slay a thousand of them with the mere shaking of a pinion, those
who were left alive would either say that a tremendous dynamite
explosion had occurred, or that the square was built on an extinct
volcano which had suddenly broken out into frightful activity. Anything
rather than believe in angels--the nineteenth century protests against
the possibility of their existence. It sees no miracle--it pooh-poohs
the very enthusiasm that might work them.

"Give a positive sign," it says; "prove clearly that what you say is
true, and I, in spite of my Progress and Atom Theory, will believe."
The answer to such a request was spoken eighteen hundred years and more
ago. "A faithless and perverse generation asketh for a sign, and no
sign shall be given unto them."

Were I now to assert that a sign had been given to ME--to me, as one
out of the thousands who demand it--such daring assurance on my part
would meet with the most strenuous opposition from all who peruse the
following pages; each person who reads having his own ideas on all
subjects, and naturally considering them to be the best if not the only
ideas worth anything. Therefore I wish it to be plainly understood that
in this book I personally advocate no new theory of either religion or
philosophy; nor do I hold myself answerable for the opinions expressed
by any of my characters. My aim throughout is to let facts speak for
themselves. If they seem strange, unreal, even impossible, I can only
say that the things of the invisible world must always appear so to
those whose thoughts and desires are centred on this life only.






CHAPTER I.

AN ARTIST'S STUDIO.


In the winter of 188-, I was afflicted by a series of nervous ailments,
brought on by overwork and overworry. Chief among these was a
protracted and terrible insomnia, accompanied by the utmost depression
of spirits and anxiety of mind. I became filled with the gloomiest
anticipations of evil; and my system was strung up by slow degrees to
such a high tension of physical and mental excitement, that the
quietest and most soothing of friendly voices had no other effect upon
me than to jar and irritate. Work was impossible; music, my one
passion, intolerable; books became wearisome to my sight; and even a
short walk in the open air brought with it such lassitude and
exhaustion, that I soon grew to dislike the very thought of moving out
of doors. In such a condition of health, medical aid became necessary;
and a skilful and amiable physician, Dr. R----, of great repute in
nervous ailments, attended me for many weeks, with but slight success.
He was not to blame, poor man, for his failure to effect a cure. He had
only one way of treatment, and he applied it to all his patients with
more or less happy results. Some died, some recovered; it was a lottery
on which my medical friend staked his reputation, and won. The patients
who died were never heard of more--those who recovered sang the praises
of their physician everywhere, and sent him gifts of silver plate and
hampers of wine, to testify their gratitude. His popularity was very
great; his skill considered marvellous; and his inability to do ME any
good arose, I must perforce imagine, out of some defect or hidden
obstinacy in my constitution, which was to him a new experience, and
for which he was unprepared. Poor Dr. R----! How many bottles of your
tastily prepared and expensive medicines have I not swallowed, in blind
confidence and blinder ignorance of the offences I thus committed
against all the principles of that Nature within me, which, if left to
itself, always heroically struggles to recover its own proper balance
and effect its own cure; but which, if subjected to the experimental
tests of various poisons or drugs, often loses strength in the
unnatural contest and sinks exhausted, perhaps never to rise with
actual vigour again. Baffled in his attempts to remedy my ailments, Dr.
R---- at last resorted to the usual plan adopted by all physicians when
their medicines have no power. He recommended change of air and scene,
and urged my leaving London, then dark with the fogs of a dreary
winter, for the gaiety and sunshine and roses of the Riviera. The idea
was not unpleasant to me, and I determined to take the advice
proffered. Hearing of my intention, some American friends of mine,
Colonel Everard and his charming young wife, decided to accompany me,
sharing with me the expenses of the journey and hotel accommodation. We
left London all together on a damp foggy evening, when the cold was so
intense that it seemed to bite the flesh like the sharp teeth of an
animal, and after two days' rapid journey, during which I felt my
spirits gradually rising, and my gloomy forebodings vanishing slowly
one by one, we arrived at Cannes, and put up at the Hotel de L----. It
was a lovely place, and most beautifully situated; the garden was a
perfect wilderness of roses in full bloom, and an avenue of
orange-trees beginning to flower cast a delicate fragrance on the warm
delicious air.

Mrs. Everard was delighted.

"If you do not recover your health here," she said half laughingly to
me on the second morning after our arrival, "I am afraid your case is
hopeless. What sunshine! What a balmy wind! It is enough to make a
cripple cast away his crutches and forget he was ever lame. Don't you
think so?"

I smiled in answer, but inwardly I sighed. Beautiful as the scenery,
the air, and the general surroundings were, I could not disguise from
myself that the temporary exhilaration of my feelings, caused by the
novelty and excitement of my journey to Cannes, was slowly but surely
passing away. The terrible apathy, against which I had fought for so
many months, was again creeping over me with its cruel and resistless
force. I did my best to struggle against it; I walked, I rode, I
laughed and chatted with Mrs. Everard and her husband, and forced
myself into sociability with some of the visitors at the hotel, who
were disposed to show us friendly attention. I summoned all my stock of
will-power to beat back the insidious physical and mental misery that
threatened to sap the very spring of my life; and in some of these
efforts I partially succeeded. But it was at night that the terrors of
my condition manifested themselves. Then sleep forsook my eyes; a dull
throbbing weight of pain encircled my head like a crown of thorns;
nervous terrors shook me from head to foot; fragments of my own musical
compositions hummed in my ears with wearying persistence--fragments
that always left me in a state of distressed conjecture; for I never
could remember how they ended, and I puzzled myself vainly over
crotchets and quavers that never would consent to arrange themselves in
any sort of finale. So the days went on; for Colonel Everard and his
wife, those days were full of merriment, sight-seeing, and enjoyment.
For me, though outwardly I appeared to share in the universal gaiety,
they were laden with increasing despair and wretchedness; for I began
to lose hope of ever recovering my once buoyant health and strength,
and, what was even worse, I seemed to have utterly parted with all
working ability. I was young, and up to within a few months life had
stretched brightly before me, with the prospect of a brilliant career.
And now what was I? A wretched invalid--a burden to myself and to
others--a broken spar flung with other fragments of ship wrecked lives
on the great ocean of Time, there to be whirled away and forgotten. But
a rescue was approaching; a rescue sudden and marvellous, of which, in
my wildest fancies, I had never dreamed.

Staying in the same hotel with us was a young Italian artist, Raffaello
Cellini by name. His pictures were beginning to attract a great deal of
notice, both in Paris and Rome: not only for their faultless drawing,
but for their wonderfully exquisite colouring. So deep and warm and
rich were the hues he transferred to his canvases, that others of his
art, less fortunate in the management of the palette, declared he must
have invented some foreign compound whereby he was enabled to deepen
and brighten his colours for the time being; but that the effect was
only temporary, and that his pictures, exposed to the air for some
eight or ten years, would fade away rapidly, leaving only the traces of
an indistinct blur. Others, more generous, congratulated him on having
discovered the secrets of the old masters. In short, he was admired,
condemned, envied, and flattered, all in a breath; while he himself,
being of a singularly serene and unruffled disposition, worked away
incessantly, caring little or nothing for the world's praise or blame.

Cellini had a pretty suite of rooms in the Hotel de L----, and my
friends Colonel and Mrs. Everard fraternized with him very warmly. He
was by no means slow to respond to their overtures of friendship, and
so it happened that his studio became a sort of lounge for us, where we
would meet to have tea, to chat, to look at the pictures, or to discuss
our plans for future enjoyment. These visits to Cellini's studio,
strange to say, had a remarkably soothing and calming effect upon my
suffering nerves. The lofty and elegant room, furnished with that
"admired disorder" and mixed luxuriousness peculiar to artists, with
its heavily drooping velvet curtains, its glimpses of white marble
busts and broken columns, its flash and fragrance of flowers that
bloomed in a tiny conservatory opening out from the studio and leading
to the garden, where a fountain bubbled melodiously--all this pleased
me and gave me a curious, yet most welcome, sense of absolute rest.
Cellini himself had a fascination for me, for exactly the same reason.
As an example of this, I remember escaping from Mrs. Everard on one
occasion, and hurrying to the most secluded part of the garden, in
order to walk up and down alone in an endeavour to calm an attack of
nervous agitation which had suddenly seized me. While thus pacing about
in feverish restlessness, I saw Cellini approaching, his head bent as
if in thought, and his hands clasped behind his back. As he drew near
me, he raised his eyes--they were clear and darkly brilliant--he
regarded me steadfastly with a kindly smile. Then lifting his hat with
the graceful reverence peculiar to an Italian, he passed on, saying no
word. But the effect of his momentary presence upon me was
remarkable--it was ELECTRIC. I was no longer agitated. Calmed, soothed
and almost happy, I returned to Mrs. Everard, and entered into her
plans for the day with so much alacrity that she was surprised and
delighted.

"If you go on like this," she said, "you will be perfectly well in a
month."

I was utterly unable to account for the remedial influence Raffaello
Cellini's presence had upon me; but such as it was I could not but be
grateful for the respite it gave me from nervous suffering, and my now
daily visits to the artist's studio were a pleasure and a privilege not
to be foregone. Moreover, I was never tired of looking at his pictures.
His subjects were all original, and some of them were very weird and
fantastic. One large picture particularly attracted me. It was entitled
"Lords of our Life and Death." Surrounded by rolling masses of cloud,
some silver-crested, some shot through with red flame, was depicted the
World, as a globe half in light, half in shade. Poised above it was a
great Angel, upon whose calm and noble face rested a mingled expression
of deep sorrow, yearning pity, and infinite regret. Tears seemed to
glitter on the drooping lashes of this sweet yet stern Spirit; and in
his strong right hand he held a drawn sword--the sword of
destruction--pointed forever downwards to the fated globe at his feet.
Beneath this Angel and the world he dominated was darkness--utter
illimitable darkness. But above him the clouds were torn asunder, and
through a transparent veil of light golden mist, a face of surpassing
beauty was seen--a face on which youth, health, hope, love, and
ecstatic joy all shone with ineffable radiance. It was the
personification of Life--not life as we know it, brief and full of
care--but Life Immortal and Love Triumphant. Often and often I found
myself standing before this masterpiece of Cellini's genius, gazing at
it, not only with admiration, but with a sense of actual comfort. One
afternoon, while resting in my favourite low chair opposite the
picture, I roused myself from a reverie, and turning to the artist, who
was showing some water-colour sketches to Mrs. Everard, I said abruptly:

"Did you imagine that face of the Angel of Life, Signor Cellini, or had
you a model to copy from?"

He looked at me and smiled.

"It is a moderately good portrait of an existing original," he said.

"A woman's face then, I suppose? How very beautiful she must be!"

"Actual beauty is sexless," he replied, and was silent. The expression
of his face had become abstracted and dreamy, and he turned over the
sketches for Mrs. Everard with an air which showed his thoughts to be
far away from his occupation.

"And the Death Angel?" I went on. "Had you a model for that also?"

This time a look of relief, almost of gladness, passed over his
features.

"No indeed," he answered with ready frankness; "that is entirely my own
creation."

I was about to compliment him on the grandeur and force of his poetical
fancy, when he stopped me by a slight gesture of his hand.

"If you really admire the picture," he said, "pray do not say so. If it
is in truth a work of art, let it speak to you as art only, and spare
the poor workman who has called it into existence the shame of having
to confess that it is not above human praise. The only true criticism
of high art is silence--silence as grand as heaven itself."

He spoke with energy, and his dark eyes flashed. Amy (Mrs. Everard)
looked at him curiously.

"Say now!" she exclaimed, with a ringing laugh, "aren't you a little
bit eccentric, signor? You talk like a long-haired prophet! I never met
an artist before who couldn't stand praise; it is generally a matter of
wonder to me to notice how much of that intoxicating sweet they can
swallow without reeling. But you're an exception, I must admit. I
congratulate you!"

Cellini bowed gaily in response to the half-friendly, half-mocking
curtsey she gave him, and, turning to me again, said:

"I have a favour to ask of you, mademoiselle. Will you sit to me for
your portrait?"

"I!" I exclaimed, with astonishment. "Signor Cellini, I cannot imagine
why you should wish so to waste your valuable time. There is nothing in
my poor physiognomy worthy of your briefest attention."

"You must pardon me, mademoiselle," he replied gravely, "if I presume
to differ from you. I am exceedingly anxious to transfer your features
to my canvas. I am aware that you are not in strong health, and that
your face has not that roundness and colour formerly habitual to it.
But I am not an admirer of the milkmaid type of beauty. Everywhere I
seek for intelligence, for thought, for inward refinement--in short,
mademoiselle, you have the face of one whom the inner soul consumes,
and, as such, may I plead again with you to give me a little of your
spare time? YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT, I ASSURE YOU."

These last words were uttered in a lower tone and with singular
impressiveness. I rose from my seat and looked at him steadily; he
returned me glance for glance, A strange thrill ran through me,
followed by that inexplicable sensation of absolute calm that I had
before experienced. I smiled--I could, not help smiling.

"I will come to-morrow," I said.

"A thousand thanks, mademoiselle! Can you be here at noon?"

I looked inquiringly at Amy, who clapped her hands with delighted
enthusiasm.

"Of course! Any time you like, signor. We will arrange our excursions
so that they shall not interfere with the sittings. It will be most
interesting to watch the picture growing day by day. What will you call
it, signor? By some fancy title?"

"It will depend on its appearance when completed," he replied, as he
threw open the doors of the studio and bowed us out with his usual
ceremonious politeness.

"Au revoir, madame! A demain, mademoiselle!" and the violet velvet
curtains of the portiere fell softly behind us as we made our exit.

"Is there not something strange about that young man?" said Mrs.
Everard, as we walked through the long gallery of the Hotel de L----
back to our own rooms. "Something fiendish or angelic, or a little of
both qualities mixed up?"

"I think he is what people term PECULIAR, when they fail to understand
the poetical vagaries of genius," I replied. "He is certainly very
uncommon."

"Well!" continued my friend meditatively, as she contemplated her
pretty mignonne face and graceful figure in a long mirror placed
attractively in a corner of the hall through which we were passing;
"all I can say is that I wouldn't let him paint MY portrait if he were
to ask ever so! I should be scared to death. I wonder you, being so
nervous, were not afraid of him."

"I thought you liked him," I said.

"So I do. So does my husband. He's awfully handsome and clever, and all
that--but his conversation! There now, my dear, you must own he is
slightly QUEER. Why, who but a lunatic would say that the only
criticism of art is silence? Isn't that utter rubbish?"

"The only TRUE criticism," I corrected her gently.

"Well, it's all the same. How can there be any criticism at all in
silence? According to his idea when we admire anything very much we
ought to go round with long faces and gags on our mouths. That would be
entirely ridiculous! And what was that dreadful thing he said to you?"

"I don't quite understand you," I answered; "I cannot remember his
saying anything dreadful."

"Oh, I have it now," continued Amy with rapidity; "it was awful! He
said you had the FACE OF ONE WHOM THE SOUL CONSUMES. You know that was
most horribly mystical! And when he said it he looked--ghastly! What
did he mean by it, I wonder?"

I made no answer; but I thought I knew. I changed the conversation as
soon as possible, and my volatile American friend was soon absorbed in
a discussion on dress and jewellery. That night was a blessed one for
me; I was free from all suffering, and slept as calmly as a child,
while in my dreams the face of Cellini's "Angel of life" smiled at me,
and seemed to suggest peace.




CHAPTER II.

THE MYSTERIOUS POTION.


The next day, punctually at noon, according to my promise, I entered
the studio. I was alone, for Amy, after some qualms of conscience
respecting chaperonage, propriety, and Mrs. Grundy, had yielded to my
entreaties and gone for a drive with some friends. In spite of the
fears she began to entertain concerning the Mephistophelian character
of Raffaello Cellini, there was one thing of which both she and I felt
morally certain: namely, that no truer or more honourable gentleman
than he ever walked on the earth. Under his protection the loveliest
and loneliest woman that ever lived would have been perfectly safe--as
safe as though she were shut up, like the princess in the fairy-tale,
in a brazen tower, of which only an undiscoverable serpent possessed
the key. When I arrived, the rooms were deserted, save for the presence
of a magnificent Newfoundland dog, who, as I entered, rose, and shaking
his shaggy body, sat down before me and offered me his huge paw,
wagging his tail in the most friendly manner all the while, I at once
responded to his cordial greeting, and as I stroked his noble head, I
wondered where the animal had come from; for though--we had visited
Signor Cellini's studio every day, there had been no sign or mention of
this stately, brown-eyed, four-footed companion. I seated myself, and
the dog immediately lay down at my feet, every now and then looking up
at me with an affectionate glance and a renewed wagging of his tail.
Glancing round the well-known room, I noticed that the picture I
admired so much was veiled by a curtain of Oriental stuff, in which
were embroidered threads of gold mingled with silks of various
brilliant hues. On the working easel was a large square canvas, already
prepared, as I supposed, for my features to be traced thereon. It was
an exceedingly warm morning, and though the windows as well as the
glass doors of the conservatory were wide open, I found the air of the
studio very oppressive. I perceived on the table a finely-wrought
decanter of Venetian glass, in which clear water sparkled temptingly.
Rising from my chair, I took an antique silver goblet from the
mantelpiece, filled it with the cool fluid, and was about to drink,
when the cup was suddenly snatched from my hands, and the voice of
Cellini, changed from its usual softness to a tone both imperious and
commanding, startled me.

"Do not drink that," he said; "you must not! You dare not! I forbid
you!"

I looked up at him in mute astonishment. His face was very pale, and
his large dark eyes shone with suppressed excitement. Slowly my
self-possession returned to me, and I said calmly:

"YOU forbid me, signor? Surely you forget yourself. What harm have I
done in helping myself to a simple glass of water in your studio? You
are not usually so inhospitable."

While I spoke his manner changed, the colour returned to his face, and
his eyes softened--he smiled.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle, for my brusquerie. It is true I forgot
myself for a moment. But you were in danger, and----"

"In danger!" I exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes, mademoiselle. This," and he held up the Venetian decanter to the
light, "is not water simply. If you will observe it now with the
sunshine beating full against it, I think you will perceive
peculiarities in it that will assure you of my veracity."

I looked as he bade me, and saw, to my surprise, that the fluid was
never actually still for a second. A sort of internal bubbling seemed
to work in its centre, and curious specks and lines of crimson and gold
flashed through it from time to time.

"What is it?" I asked; adding with a half-smile, "Are you the possessor
of a specimen of the far-famed Aqua Tofana?"

Cellini placed the decanter carefully on a shelf, and I noticed that he
chose a particular spot for it, where the rays of the sun could fall
perpendicularly upon the vessel containing it. Then turning to me, he
replied:

"Aqua Tofana, mademoiselle, is a deadly poison, known to the ancients
and also to many learned chemists of our day. It is a clear and
colourless liquid, but it is absolutely still--as still as a stagnant
pool. What I have just shown you is not poison, but quite the reverse.
I will prove this to you at once." And taking a tiny liqueur glass from
a side table, he filled it with the strange fluid and drank it off,
carefully replacing the stopper in the decanter.

"But, Signor Cellini," I urged, "if it is so harmless, why did you
forbid my tasting it? Why did you say there was danger for me when I
was about to drink it?"

"Because, mademoiselle, for YOU it would be dangerous. Your health is
weak, your nerves unstrung. That elixir is a powerful vivifying tonic,
acting with great rapidity on the entire system, and rushing through
the veins with the swiftness of ELECTRICITY. I am accustomed to it; it
is my daily medicine. But I was brought to it by slow, and almost
imperceptible degrees. A single teaspoonful of that fluid,
mademoiselle, administered to anyone not prepared to receive it, would
be instant death, though its actual use is to vivify and strengthen
human life. You understand now why I said you were in danger?"

"I understand," I replied, though in sober truth I was mystified and
puzzled.

"And you forgive my seeming rudeness?"

"Oh, certainly! But you have aroused my curiosity. I should like to
know more about this strange medicine of yours."

"You shall know more if you wish," said Cellini, his usual equable
humour and good spirits now quite restored. "You shall know everything;
but not to-day. We have too little time. I have not yet commenced your
picture. And I forgot--you were thirsty, and I was, as you said,
inhospitable. You must permit me to repair my fault."

And with a courteous salute he left the room, to return almost
immediately with a tumbler full of some fragrant, golden-coloured
liquid, in which lumps of ice glittered refreshingly. A few loose
rose-leaves were scattered on the top of this dainty-looking beverage.

"You may enjoy this without fear," said he, smiling; "it will do you
good. It is an Eastern wine, unknown to trade, and therefore untampered
with. I see you are looking at the rose-leaves on the surface. That is
a Persian custom, and I think a pretty one. They float away from your
lips in the action of drinking, and therefore they are no obstacle."

I tasted the wine and found it delicious, soft and mellow as summer
moonlight. While I sipped it the big Newfoundland, who had stretched
himself in a couchant posture on the hearth-rug ever since Cellini had
first entered the room, rose and walked majestically to my side and
rubbed his head caressingly against the folds of my dress.

"Leo has made friends with you, I see," said Cellini. "You should take
that as a great compliment, for he is most particular in his choice of
acquaintance, and most steadfast when he has once made up his mind. He
has more decision of character than many a statesman."

"How is it we have never seen him before?" I inquired. "You never told
us you had such a splendid companion."

"I am not his master," replied the artist. "He only favours me with a
visit occasionally. He arrived from Paris last night, and came straight
here, sure of his welcome. He does not confide his plans to me, but I
suppose he will return to his home when he thinks it advisable. He
knows his own business best."

I laughed.

"What a clever dog! Does he journey on foot, or does he take the train?"

"I believe he generally patronizes the railway. All the officials know
him, and he gets into the guard's van as a matter of course. Sometimes
he will alight at a station en route, and walk the rest of the way. But
if he is lazily inclined, he does not stir till the train reaches its
destination. At the end of every six months or so, the railway
authorities send the bill of Leo's journeyings in to his master, when
it is always settled without difficulty."

"And who IS his master?" I ventured to ask.

Cellini's face grew serious and absorbed, and his eyes were full of
grave contemplation as he answered:

"His master, mademoiselle, is MY master--one who among men, is
supremely intelligent; among teachers, absolutely unselfish; among
thinkers, purely impersonal; among friends, inflexibly faithful. To him
I owe everything--even life itself. For him no sacrifice, no extreme
devotion would be too great, could I hope thereby to show my gratitude.
But he is as far above human thanks or human rewards as the sun is
above the sea. Not here, not now, dare I say to him, MY FRIEND, BEHOLD
HOW MUCH I LOVE THEE! such language would be all too poor and
unmeaning; but hereafter--who knows?----" and he broke off abruptly
with a half-sigh. Then, as if forcing himself to change the tenor of
his thoughts, he continued in a kind tone: "But, mademoiselle, I am
wasting your time, and am taking no advantage of the favour you have
shown me by your presence to-day. Will you seat yourself here?" and he
placed an elaborately carved oaken settee in one corner of the studio,
opposite his own easel. "I should be sorry to fatigue you at all," he
went on; "do you care for reading?"

I answered eagerly in the affirmative, and he handed me a volume bound
in curiously embossed leather, and ornamented with silver clasps. It
was entitled "Letters of a Dead Musician."

"You will find clear gems of thought, passion, and feeling in this
book," said Cellini; "and being a musician yourself, you will know how
to appreciate them. The writer was one of those geniuses whose work the
world repays with ridicule and contempt. There is no fate more
enviable!"

I looked at the artist with some surprise as I took the volume he
recommended, and seated myself in the position he indicated; and while
he busied himself in arranging the velvet curtains behind me as a
background, I said:

"Do you really consider it enviable, Signor Cellini, to receive the
world's ridicule and contempt?"

"I do indeed," he replied, "since it is a certain proof that the world
does not understand you. To achieve something that is above human
comprehension, THAT is greatness. To have the serene sublimity of the
God-man Christ, and consent to be crucified by a gibing world that was
fated to be afterwards civilized and dominated by His teachings, what
can be more glorious? To have the magnificent versatility of a
Shakespeare, who was scarcely recognized in his own day, but whose
gifts were so vast and various that the silly multitudes wrangle over
his very identity and the authenticity of his plays to this hour--what
can be more triumphant? To know that one's own soul can, if
strengthened and encouraged by the force of will, rise to a supreme
altitude of power--is not that sufficient to compensate for the little
whining cries of the common herd of men and women who have forgotten
whether they ever had a spiritual spark in them, and who, straining up
to see the light of genius that burns too fiercely for their
earth-dimmed eyes, exclaim: 'WE see nothing, therefore there CAN be
nothing.' Ah, mademoiselle, the knowledge of one's own inner
Self-Existence is a knowledge surpassing all the marvels of art and
science!"

Cellini spoke with enthusiasm, and his countenance seemed illumined by
the eloquence that warmed his speech. I listened with a sort of dreamy
satisfaction; the visual sensation of utter rest that I always
experienced in this man's presence was upon me, and I watched him with
interest as he drew with quick and facile touch the outline of my
features on his canvas.

Gradually he became more and more absorbed in his work; he glanced at
me from time to time, but did not speak, and his pencil worked rapidly.
I turned over the "Letters of a Dead Musician" with some curiosity.
Several passages struck me as being remarkable for their originality
and depth of thought; but what particularly impressed me as I read on,
was the tone of absolute joy and contentment that seemed to light up
every page. There were no wailings over disappointed ambition, no
regrets for the past, no complaints, no criticism, no word for or
against the brothers of his art; everything was treated from a lofty
standpoint of splendid equality, save when the writer spoke of himself,
and then he became the humblest of the humble, yet never abject, and
always happy.

"O Music!" he wrote, "Music, thou Sweetest Spirit of all that serve
God, what have I done that thou shouldst so often visit me? It is not
well, O thou Lofty and Divine One, that thou shouldst stoop so low as
to console him who is the unworthiest of all thy servants. For I am too
feeble to tell the world how soft is the sound of thy rustling pinions,
how tender is the sighing breath of thy lips, how beyond all things
glorious is the vibration of thy lightest whisper! Remain aloft, thou
Choicest Essence of the Creator's Voice, remain in that pure and
cloudless ether, where alone thou art fitted to dwell. My touch must
desecrate thee, my voice affright thee. Suffice it to thy servant, O
Beloved, to dream of thee and die!"

Meeting Cellini's glance as I finished reading these lines, I asked:

"Did you know the author of this book, signor?"

"I knew him well," he replied; "he was one of the gentlest souls that
ever dwelt in human clay. As ethereal in his music as John Keats in his
poetry, he was one of those creatures born of dreams and rapture that
rarely visit this planet. Happy fellow! What a death was his!"

"How did he die?" I inquired.

"He was playing the organ in one of the great churches of Rome on the
day of the Feast of the Virgin. A choir of finely trained voices sang
to his accompaniment his own glorious setting of the "Regina Coeli."
The music was wonderful, startling, triumphant--ever rising in power
and majesty to a magnificent finale, when suddenly a slight crash was
heard; the organ ceased abruptly, the singers broke off. The musician
was dead. He had fallen forward on the keys of the instrument, and when
they raised him, his face was fairer than the face of any sculptured
angel, so serene was its expression, so rapt was its smile. No one
could tell exactly the cause of his death--he had always been
remarkably strong and healthy. Everyone said it was heart-disease--it
is the usual reason assigned by medical savants for these sudden
departures out of the world. His loss was regretted by all, save myself
and one other who loved him. We rejoiced, and still do rejoice, at his
release."

I speculated vaguely on the meaning of these last words, but I felt
disinclined to ask any more questions, and Cellini, probably seeing
this, worked on at his sketch without further converse. My eyes were
growing heavy, and the printed words in the "Dead Musician's Letters"
danced before my sight like active little black demons with thin waving
arms and legs. A curious yet not unpleasant drowsiness stole over me,
in which I heard the humming of the bees at the open window, the
singing of the birds, and the voices of people in the hotel gardens,
all united in one continuous murmur that seemed a long way off. I saw
the sunshine and the shadow--I saw the majestic Leo stretched full
length near the easel, and the slight supple form of Raffaello Cellini
standing out in bold outline against the light; yet all seemed shifting
and mingling strangely into a sort of wide radiance in which there was
nothing but varying tints of colour. And could it have been my fancy,
or did I actually SEE the curtain fall gradually away from my favourite
picture, just enough for the face of the "Angel of Life" to be seen
smiling down upon me? I rubbed my eyes violently, and started to my
feet at the sound of the artist's voice.

"I have tried your patience enough for to-day," he said, and his words
sounded muffled, as though they were being spoken through, a thick
wall. "You can leave me now if you like."

I stood before him mechanically, still holding the book he had lent me
clasped in my hand. Irresolutely I raised my eyes towards the "Lords of
our Life and Death." It was closely veiled. I had then experienced an
optical illusion. I forced myself to speak--to smile--to put back the
novel sensations that were overwhelming me.

"I think," I said, and I heard myself speak as though I were somebody
else at a great distance off--"I think, Signor Cellini, your Eastern
wine has been too potent for me. My head is quite heavy, and I feel
dazed."

"It is mere fatigue and the heat of the day," he replied quietly. "I am
sure you are not too DAZED, as you call it, to see your favourite
picture, are you?"

I trembled. Was not that picture veiled? I looked--there was no curtain
at all, and the faces of the two Angels shone out of the canvas with
intense brilliancy! Strange to say, I felt no surprise at this
circumstance, which, had it occurred a moment previously, would have
unquestionably astonished and perhaps alarmed me. The mistiness of my
brain suddenly cleared; I saw everything plainly; I heard distinctly;
and when I spoke, the tone of my voice sounded as full and ringing as
it had previously seemed low and muffled. I gazed steadfastly at the
painting, and replied, half smiling:

"I should be indeed 'far gone,' as the saying is, if I could not see
that, signor! It is truly your masterpiece. Why have you never
exhibited it?"

"Can YOU ask that?" he said with impressive emphasis, at the same time
drawing nearer and fixing upon me the penetrating glance of his dark
fathomless eyes. It then seemed to me that some great inner force
compelled me to answer this half-inquiry, in words of which I had taken
no previous thought, and which, as I uttered them, conveyed no special
meaning to my own ears.

"Of course," I said slowly, as if I were repeating a lesson, "you would
not so betray the high trust committed to your charge."

"Well said!" replied Cellini; "you are fatigued, mademoiselle. Au
revoir! Till to-morrow!" And, throwing open the door of his studio, he
stood aside for me to pass out. I looked at him inquiringly.

"Must I come at the same time to-morrow?" I asked.

"If you please."

I passed my hand across my forehead perplexedly, I felt I had something
else to say before I left him. He waited patiently, holding back with
one hand the curtains of the portiere.

"I think I had a parting word to give you," I said at last, meeting his
gaze frankly; "but I seem to have forgotten what it was." Cellini
smiled gravely.

"Do not trouble to think about it, mademoiselle. I am unworthy the
effort on your part."

A flash of vivid light crossed my eyes for a second, and I exclaimed
eagerly:

"I remember now! It was 'Dieu vous garde' signor!"

He bent his head reverentially.

"Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde--vous aussi. Au
revoir."

And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed the
door of his room behind me. Once alone in the passage, the sense of
high elation and contentment that had just possessed me began gradually
to decrease. I had not become actually dispirited, but a languid
feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as though I had
walked incessantly for many miles. I went straight to my own room. I
consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at which the hotel
luncheon was usually served. Mrs. Everard had evidently not returned
from her drive. I did not care to attend the table d'hote alone;
besides, I had no inclination to eat. I drew down the window-blinds to
shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful Southern sunlight, and
throwing myself on my bed I determined to rest quietly till Amy came
back. I had brought the "Letters of a Dead Musician" away with me from
Cellini's studio, and I began to read, intending to keep myself awake
by this means. But I found I could not fix my attention on the page,
nor could I think at all connectedly. Little by little my eyelids
closed; the book dropped from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I
was in a deep and tranquil slumber.




CHAPTER III.

THREE VISIONS.


Roses, roses! An interminable chain of these royal blossoms, red and
white, wreathed by the radiant fingers of small rainbow-winged
creatures as airy as moonlight mist, as delicate as thistledown! They
cluster round me with smiling faces and eager eyes; they place the end
of their rose-garland in my hand, and whisper, "FOLLOW!" Gladly I obey,
and hasten onward. Guiding myself by the fragrant chain I hold, I pass
through a labyrinth of trees, whose luxuriant branches quiver with the
flight and song of birds. Then comes a sound of waters; the riotous
rushing of a torrent unchecked, that leaps sheer down from rocks a
thousand feet high, thundering forth the praise of its own beauty as it
tosses in the air triumphant crowns of silver spray. How the living
diamonds within it shift, and change, and sparkle! Fain would I linger
to watch this magnificence; but the coil of roses still unwinds before
me, and the fairy voices still cry, "FOLLOW!" I press on. The trees
grow thicker; the songs of the birds cease; the light around me grows
pale and subdued. In the far distance I see a golden crescent that
seems suspended by some invisible thread in the air. Is it the young
moon? No; for as I gaze it breaks apart into a thousand points of vivid
light like wandering stars. These meet; they blaze into letters of
fire. I strain my dazzled eyes to spell out their meaning. They form
one word--HELIOBAS. I read it. I utter it aloud. The rose-chain breaks
at my feet, and disappears. The fairy voices die away on my ear. There
is utter silence, utter darkness,--save where that one NAME writes
itself in burning gold on the blackness of the heavens.

      *      *      *      *      *

The interior of a vast cathedral is opened before my gaze. The lofty
white marble columns support a vaulted roof painted in fresco, from
which are suspended a thousand lamps that emit a mild and steady
effulgence. The great altar is illuminated; the priests, in glittering
raiment, pace slowly to and fro. The large voice of the organ,
murmuring to itself awhile, breaks forth in a shout of melody; and a
boy's clear, sonorous treble tones pierce the incense-laden air.
"Credo!"--and the silver, trumpet-like notes fall from the immense
height of the building like a bell ringing in a pure atmosphere--"Credo
in unum Deum; Patrem omni-potentum, factorem coeli et terrae,
visibilium omnium et invisibilium."

The cathedral echoes with answering voices; and, involuntarily
kneeling, I follow the words of the grand chant. I hear the music
slacken; the notes of rejoicing change to a sobbing and remorseful
wail; the organ shudders like a forest of pines in a tempest,
"Crucifixus etiam pro nobis; passus et sepultus est." A darkness grows
up around me; my senses swim. The music altogether ceases; but a
brilliant radiance streams through a side-door of the church, and
twenty maidens, clad in white and crowned with myrtle, pacing two by
two, approach me. They gaze at me with joyous eyes. "Art thou also one
of us?" they murmur; then they pass onward to the altar, where again
the lights are glimmering. I watch them with eager interest; I hear
them uplift their fresh young voices in prayer and praise. One of them,
whose deep blue eyes are full of lustrous tenderness, leaves her
companions, and softly approaches me. She holds a pencil and tablet in
her hand.

"Write!" she says, in a thrilling whisper; "and write quickly! for
whatsoever thou shalt now inscribe is the clue to thy destiny."

I obey her mechanically, impelled not by my own will, but by some
unknown powerful force acting within and around me. I trace upon the
tablet one word only; it is a name that startles me even while I myself
write it down--HELIOBAS. Scarcely have I written it when a thick white
cloud veils the cathedral from my sight; the fair maiden vanishes, and
all is again still.

      *      *      *      *      *

I am listening to the accents of a grave melodious voice, which, from
its slow and measured tones, would seem to be in the action of reading
or reciting aloud. I see a small room sparely furnished, and at a table
covered with books and manuscripts is seated a man of noble features
and commanding presence. He is in the full prime of life; his dark hair
has no thread of silver to mar its luxuriance; his face is unwrinkled;
his forehead unfurrowed by care; his eyes, deeply sunk beneath his
shelving brows, are of a singularly clear and penetrating blue, with an
absorbed and watchful look in them, like the eyes of one accustomed to
gaze far out at sea. His hand rests on the open pages of a massive
volume; he is reading, and his expression is intent and earnest--as if
he were littering his own thoughts aloud, with the conviction and force
of an orator who knows the truth of which he speaks:

"The Universe is upheld solely by the Law of Love. A majestic invisible
Protectorate governs the winds, the tides, the incoming and outgoing of
the seasons, the birth of the flowers, the growth of forests, the
outpourings of the sunlight, the silent glittering of the stars. A wide
illimitable Beneficence embraces all creation. A vast Eternal Pity
exists for all sorrow, all sin. He who first swung the planets in the
air, and bade them revolve till Time shall be no more--He, the
Fountain-Head of Absolute Perfection, is no deaf, blind, capricious, or
remorseless Being. To Him the death of the smallest singing-bird is as
great or as little as the death of a world's emperor. For Him the
timeless withering of an innocent flower is as pitiful as the decay of
a mighty nation. An infant's first prayer to Him is heard with as
tender a patience as the united petitions of thousands of worshippers.
For in everything and around everything, from the sun to a grain of
sand, He hath a portion, small or great, of His own most Perfect
Existence. Should He hate His Creation, He must perforce hate Himself;
and that Love should hate Love is an impossibility. Therefore He loves
all His work; and as Love, to be perfect, must contain Pity,
Forgiveness, and Forbearance, so doth He pity, forgive, and forbear.
Shall a mere man deny himself for the sake of his child or friend? and
shall the Infinite Love refuse to sacrifice itself--yea, even to as
immense a humility as its greatness is immeasurable? Shall we deny
those merciful attributes to God which we acknowledge in His creature,
Man? O my Soul, rejoice that thou hast pierced the veil of the Beyond;
that thou hast seen and known the Truth! that to thee is made clear the
Reason of Life, and the Recompense of Death: yet while rejoicing,
grieve that thou art not fated to draw more than a few souls to the
comfort thou hast thyself attained!"

Fascinated by the speaker's voice and countenance, I listen, straining
my ears to catch every word that falls from his lips. He rises; he
stands erect; he stretches out his hands as though in solemn entreaty.

"Azul!" he exclaims. "Messenger of my fate; thou who art a guiding
spirit of the elements, thou who ridest the storm-cloud and sittest
throned on the edge of the lightning! By that electric spark within me,
of which thou art the Twin Flame, I ask of thee to send me this one
more poor human soul; let me change its unrestfulness into repose, its
hesitation to certainty, its weakness to strength, its weary
imprisonment to the light of liberty! Azul!"

His voice ceases, his extended hands fall slowly, and gradually,
gradually he turns his whole figure towards ME. He faces me--his
intense eyes burn through me--his strange yet tender smile absorbs me.
Yet I am full of unreasoning terror; I tremble--I strive to turn away
from that searching and magnetic gaze. His deep, melodious tones again
ring softly on the silence. He addresses me.

"Fearest thou me, my child? Am I not thy friend? Knowest thou not the
name of HELIOBAS?"

At this word I start and gasp for breath; I would shriek, but cannot,
for a heavy hand seems to close my mouth, and an immense weight presses
me down. I struggle violently with this unseen Power--little by little
I gain the advantage. One effort more! I win the victory--I wake!

      *      *      *      *      *

"Sakes alive!" says a familiar voice; "you HAVE had a spell of sleep! I
got home about two, nearly starving, and I found you here curled up 'in
a rosy infant slumber,' as the song says. So I hunted up the Colonel
and had lunch, for it seemed a sin to disturb you. It's just struck
four. Shall we have some tea up here?"

I looked at Mrs. Everard, and smiled assent. So I had been sleeping for
two hours and a half, and I had evidently been dreaming all the time;
but my dreams had been as vivid as realities. I felt still rather
drowsy, but I was thoroughly rested and in a state of delicious
tranquillity. My friend rang the bell for the tea, and then turned
round and surveyed me with a sort of wonder.

"What have you done to yourself, child?" she said at last, approaching
the bed where I lay, and staring fixedly at me.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, you look a different creature. When I left you this morning you
were pale and haggard, a sort of die-away delicate invalid; now your
eyes are bright; and your cheeks have quite a lovely colour in them;
your lips, too, are the right tint. But perhaps," and here she looked
alarmed--"perhaps you've got the fever?"

"I don't think so," I said amusedly, and I stretched out my hand for
her to feel.

"No, you haven't," she continued, evidently reassured; "your palm is
moist and cool, and your pulse is regular. Well, you look spry, anyhow.
I shouldn't wonder if you made up your mind to have a dance to-night."

"Dance?" I queried. "What dance, and where?"

"Well, Madame Didier, that jolly little furbelowed Frenchwoman with
whom I was driving just now, has got up a regular party to-night--"

"Hans Breitmann gib a barty?" I interposed, with a mock solemn air of
inquiry.

Amy laughed.

"Well, yes, it MAY be that kind of thing, for all I know to the
contrary. Anyhow, she's hired the band and ordered a right-down elegant
supper. Half the folks in the hotel are going, and a lot of outsiders
have got invitations. She asked if we couldn't come--myself, the
Colonel, and you. I said I could answer for myself and the Colonel, but
not for you, as you were an invalid. But if you keep on looking as you
do at present, no one will believe that there's anything the matter
with you.--Tea, Alphonse!"

This to a polite waiter, who was our special attendant, and who just
then knocked at the door to know "madame's" orders.

Utterly disbelieving what my friend said in regard to my improved
appearance, I rose from the bed and went to the dressing-table to look
in the mirror and judge for myself. I almost recoiled from my own
reflection, so great was my surprise. The heavy marks under my eyes,
the lines of pain that had been for months deepening in my forehead,
the plaintive droop of the mouth that had given me such an air of
ill-health and anxiety--all were gone as if by magic. I saw a
rose-tinted complexion, a pair of laughing, lustrous eyes, and,
altogether, such a happy, mirthful young face smiled back at me, that I
half doubted whether it was indeed myself I saw.

"There now!" cried Amy in triumph, watching me as I pushed my
clustering hair from my brows, and examined myself more intently. "Did
I not tell you so? The change in you is marvellous! I know what it is.
You have been getting better unconsciously to yourself in this lovely
air and scene, and the long afternoon sleep you've just had has
completed the cure."

I smiled at her enthusiasm, but was forced to admit that she was right
as far as my actual looks went. No one would believe that I was, or
ever had been, ill. In silence I loosened my hair and began to brush it
and put it in order before the mirror, and as I did so my thoughts were
very busy. I remembered distinctly all that had happened in the studio
of Raffaello Cellini, and still more distinctly was I able to recall
every detail of the three dreams that had visited me in my slumber. The
NAME, too, that had been the key-note of them all I also remembered,
but some instinct forbade me to utter it aloud. Once I thought, "Shall
I take a pencil and write it down lest I forget it?" and the same
instinct said "No." Amy's voluble chatter ran on like the sound of a
rippling brook all the time I thus meditated over the occurrences of
the day.

"Say, child!" she exclaimed; "will you go to the dance?"

"Certainly I will, with pleasure," I answered, and indeed I felt as if
I should thoroughly enjoy it.

"Brava! It will be real fun. There are no end of foreign titles coming,
I believe. The Colonel's a bit grumpy about it,--he always is when he
has to wear his dress suit. He just hates it. That man hasn't a
particle of vanity. He looks handsomer in his evening clothes than in
anything else, and yet he doesn't see it. But tell me," and her pretty
face became serious with a true feminine anxiety, "whatever will you
wear? You've brought no ball fixings, have you?"

I finished twisting up the last coil of my hair, and turned and kissed
her affectionately. She was the most sweet-tempered and generous of
women, and she would have placed any one of her elaborate costumes at
my disposal had I expressed the least desire in that direction. I
answered:

"No, dear; I certainly have no regular ball 'fixings,' for I never
expected to dance here, or anywhere for that matter. I did not bring
the big trunks full of Parisian toilettes that you indulge in, you
spoilt bride! Still I have something that may do. In fact it will have
to do."

"What is it? Have I seen it? Do show!" and her curiosity was
unappeasable.

The discreet Alphonse tapped at the door again just at this moment.

"Entrez!" I answered; and our tea, prepared with the tempting nicety
peculiar to the Hotel de L----, appeared. Alphonse set the tray down
with his usual artistic nourish, and produced a small note from his
vest-pocket.

"For mademoiselle," he said with a bow; and as he handed it to me, his
eyes opened wide in surprise. He, too, perceived the change in my
appearance. But he was dignity itself, and instantly suppressed his
astonishment into the polite impassiveness of a truly accomplished
waiter, and gliding from the room on the points of his toes, as was his
usual custom, he disappeared. The note was from Cellini, and ran as
follows:


"If mademoiselle will be so good as to refrain from choosing any
flowers for her toilette this evening, she will confer a favour on her
humble friend and servant,

"RAFFAELLO CELLINI."


I handed it to Amy, who was evidently burning with inquisitiveness to
know its contents.

"Didn't I say he was a queer young man?" she exclaimed, as she perused
the missive attentively. "This is only his way of saying that he means
to send you some flowers himself. But what puzzles me is to think how
he could possibly know you were going to make any special 'toilette'
this evening. It is really very mysterious when I come to think of it,
for Madame Didier said plainly that she would not ask Cellini to the
dance till she saw him at the table d'hote to-night."

"Perhaps Alphonse has told him all about it," I suggested.

My friend's countenance brightened.

"Of course! That is it; and Mr. Cellini takes it for granted that a
girl of your age would not be likely to refuse a dance. Still there is
something odd about it, too. By-the-bye, I forgot to ask you how the
picture got on?"

"Oh, very well, I believe," I replied evasively. "Signor Cellini only
made a slight outline sketch as a beginning."

"And was it like you?--a really good resemblance?"

"I really did not examine it closely enough to be able to judge."

"What a demure young person you are!" laughed Mrs. Everard. "Now, _I_
should have rushed straight up to the easel and examined every line of
what he was doing. You are a model of discretion, really! I shan't be
anxious about leaving you alone any more. But about your dress for
to-night. Let me see it, there's a good girl."

I opened my trunk and took out a robe of ivory-tinted crepe. It was
made with almost severe simplicity, and was unadorned, save by a soft
ruffle of old Mechlin lace round the neck and sleeves. Amy examined it
critically.

"Now, you would have looked perfectly ghastly in this last night, when
you were as pale and hollow-eyed as a sick nun; but to-night," and she
raised her eyes to my face, "I believe you will do. Don't you want the
bodice cut lower?"

"No, thanks!" I said, smiling. "I will leave that to the portly
dowagers--they will expose neck enough for half-a-dozen other women."

My friend laughed.

"Do as you like," she returned; "only I see your gown has short
sleeves, and I thought you might like a square neck instead of that
little simple Greek round. But perhaps it's better as it is. The stuff
is lovely; where did you get it?"

"At one of the London emporiums of Eastern art," I answered. "My dear,
your tea is getting cold."

She laid the dress on the bed, and in doing so, perceived the
antique-looking book with the silver clasps which I had left there.

"What's this?" she asked, turning it round to discover its name.
"'Letters of a Dead Musician!' What a shivery title! Is it morbid
reading?"

"Not at all," I replied, as I leaned comfortably back in an easy-chair
and sipped my tea. "It is a very scholarly, poetical, and picturesque
work. Signor Cellini lent it to me; the author was a friend of his."

Amy looked at me with a knowing and half-serious expression.

"Say now--take care, take care! Aren't you and Cellini getting to be
rather particular friends--something a little beyond the Platonic, eh?"

This notion struck me as so absurd that I laughed heartily. Then,
without pausing for one instant to think what I was saying, I answered
with amazing readiness and frankness, considering that I really knew
nothing about it:

"Why, my dear, Raffaello Cellini is betrothed, and he is a most devoted
lover."

A moment after I had uttered this assertion I was surprised at myself.
What authority had I for saying that Cellini was betrothed? What did I
know about it? Confused, I endeavoured to find some means of retracting
this unfounded and rash remark, but no words of explanation would come
to my lips that had been so ready and primed to deliver what might be,
for all I knew, a falsehood. Amy did not perceive my embarrassment. She
was pleased and interested at the idea of Cellini's being in love.

"Really!" she exclaimed, "it makes him a more romantic character than
ever! Fancy his telling you that he was betrothed! How delightful! I
must ask him all about his chosen fair one. But I'm positively thankful
it isn't you, for I'm sure he's just a little bit off his head. Even
this book he has lent you looks like a wizard's property;" and she
fluttered the leaves of the "Dead Musician's" volume, turning them
rapidly over in search of something attractive. Suddenly she paused and
cried out: "Why, this is right-down awful! He must have been a regular
madman! Just listen!" and she read aloud:

"'How mighty are the Kingdoms of the Air! How vast they are--how
densely populated--how glorious are their destinies--how all-powerful
and wise are their inhabitants! They possess everlasting health and
beauty--their movements are music--their glances are light--they cannot
err in their laws or judgments, for their existence is love. Thrones,
principalities, and powers are among them, yet all are equal. Each one
has a different duty to perform, yet all their labours are lofty. But
what a fate is ours on this low earth! For, from the cradle to the
grave, we are watched by these spiritual spectators--watched with
unflinching interest, unhesitating regard. O Angelic Spirits, what is
there in the poor and shabby spectacle of human life to attract your
mighty Intelligences? Sorrow, sin, pride, shame, ambition, failure,
obstinacy, ignorance, selfishness, forgetfulness--enough to make ye
veil your radiant faces in unpierceable clouds to hide forever the
sight of so much crime and misery. Yet if there be the faintest,
feeblest effort in our souls to answer to the call of your voices, to
rise above the earth by force of the same will that pervades your
destinies, how the sound of great rejoicing permeates those wide
continents ye inhabit, like a wave of thunderous music; and ye are
glad, Blessed Spirits!--glad with a gladness beyond that of your own
lives, to feel and to know that some vestige, however fragile, is
spared from the general wreck of selfish and unbelieving Humanity.
Truly we work under the shadow of a "cloud of Witnesses." Disperse,
disperse, O dense yet brilliant multitudes! turn away from me your
burning, truthful, immutable eyes, filled with that look of divine,
perpetual regret and pity! Lo, how unworthy am I to behold your glory!
and yet I must see and know and love you all, while the mad blind world
rushes on to its own destruction, and none can avert its doom.'"

Here Amy threw down the book with a sort of contempt, and said to me:

"If you are going to muddle your mind with the ravings of a lunatic,
you are not what I took you for. Why, it's regular spiritualism!
Kingdoms of the air indeed! And his cloud of witnesses! Rubbish!"

"He quotes the CLOUD OF WITNESSES from St. Paul," I remarked.

"More shame for him!" replied my friend, with the usual inconsistent
indignation that good Protestants invariably display when their pet
corn, the Bible, is accidentally trodden on. "It has been very well
said that the devil can quote Scripture, and this musician (a good job
he IS dead, I'm sure) is perfectly blasphemous to quote the Testament
in support of his ridiculous ideas! St. Paul did not mean by 'a cloud
of witnesses,' a lot of 'air multitudes' and 'burning, immutable eyes,'
and all that nonsense."

"Well, what DID he mean?" I gently persisted.

"Oh, he meant--why, you know very well what he meant," said Amy, in a
tone of reproachful solemnity. "And I wonder at your asking me such a
question! Surely you know your Bible, and you must be aware that St.
Paul could never have approved of spiritualism."

"'And there are bodies celestial and bodies terrestrial, but one is the
glory of the celestial?" I quoted with, a slight smile.

Mrs. Everard looked shocked and almost angry.

"My dear, I am ashamed of you! You are a believer in spirits, I do
declare! Why, I thought Maskelyne and Cook had cured everybody of such
notions; and now here's this horrid book going to make you more nervous
than ever. I shall have you getting up one night and shrieking about
burning, immutable eyes looking at you."

I laughed merrily as I rose to pick up the discarded volume from the
floor.

"Don't be afraid," I said; "I'll give back the book to Signor Cellini
to-morrow, and I will tell him that you do not like the idea of my
reading it, and that I am going to study the Bible instead. Come now,
dear, don't look cross!" and I embraced her warmly, for I liked her far
too well to wish to offend her. "Let us concentrate our attention on
our finery for to-night, when a 'dense and brilliant multitude,' not of
air, but of the 'earth earthy,' will pass us under critical survey. I
assure you I mean to make the best of my improved looks, as I don't
believe they will last. I dare say I shall be the 'sick nun' that you
termed me again to-morrow."

"I hope not, dearest," said my friend kindly, returning my caress and
forgetting her momentary ill-humour. "A jolly dance will do you good if
you are careful to avoid over-exertion. But you are quite right, we
must really fix our things ready for the evening, else we shall be all
in a flurry at the last moment, and nothing riles the Colonel so much
as to see women in a fuss. I shall wear my lace dress; but it wants
seeing to. Will you help me?"

Readily assenting, we were soon deep in the arrangement of the
numberless little mysteries that make up a woman's toilette; and
nothing but the most frivolous conversation ensued. But as I assisted
in the sorting of laces, jewels, and other dainty appendages of evening
costume, I was deep in earnest meditation. Reviewing in my own mind the
various sensations I had experienced since I had tasted that Eastern
wine in Cellini's studio, I came to the conclusion that he must have
tried an experiment on me with some foreign drug, of which he alone
knew the properties. Why he should do this I could not determine; but
that he had done it I was certain. Besides this, I felt sure that he
personally exerted some influence upon me--a soothing and calming
influence I was forced to admit--still, it could hardly be allowed to
continue. To be under the control, however slight, of one who was
almost a stranger to me, was, at the least, unnatural and unpleasant. I
was bound to ask him a few plain questions. And, supposing Mrs. Everard
were to speak to him about his being betrothed, and he were to deny it,
and afterwards were to turn round upon me and ask what authority I had
for making such a statement, what should I say? Convict myself of
falsehood? However, it was no use to puzzle over the solution of this
difficulty till it positively presented itself. At any rate, I
determined I would ask him frankly, face to face, for some explanation
of the strange emotions I had felt ever since meeting him; and thus
resolved, I waited patiently for the evening.




CHAPTER IV.

A DANCE AND A PROMISE.


Our little French friend, Madame Didier, was not a woman to do things
by halves. She was one of those rare exceptions among Parisian
ladies--she was a perfectly happy wife; nay, more, she was in love with
her own husband, a fact which, considering the present state of society
both in France and England, rendered her almost contemptible in the
eyes of all advanced thinkers. She was plump and jolly in appearance;
round-eyed and brisk as a lively robin. Her husband, a large,
mild-faced placid man--"mon petit mari," as she called him--permitted
her to have her own way in everything, and considered all she did as
perfectly well done. Therefore, when she had proposed this informal
dance at the Hotel de L----, he made no objection, but entered into her
plans with spirit; and, what was far more important, opened his purse
readily to her demands for the necessary expenses. So nothing was
stinted; the beautiful ballroom attached to the hotel was thrown open,
and lavishly decorated with flowers, fountains, and twinkling lights;
an awning extended from its windows right down the avenue of dark
ilex-trees, which were ornamented with Chinese lanterns; an elegant
supper was laid out in the large dining-room, and the whole
establishment was en fete. The delicious strains of a Viennese band
floated to our ears as Colonel Everard, his wife, and myself descended
the staircase on our way to the scene of revelry; and suggestions of
fairyland were presented to us in the graceful girlish forms, clad in
light, diaphanous attire, that flitted here and there, or occasionally
passed us. Colonel Everard marched proudly along with the military
bearing that always distinguished him, now and then glancing admiringly
at his wife, who, indeed, looked her very best. Her dress was of the
finest Brussels lace, looped over a skirt of the palest shell-pink
satin; deep crimson velvet roses clustered on her breast, and nestled
in her rich hair; a necklace of magnificent rubies clasped her neck,
and the same jewels glittered on her round white arms. Her eyes shone
with pleasurable excitement, and the prettiest colour imaginable tinted
her delicate cheeks.

"When an American woman is lovely, she is very lovely," I said. "You
will be the belle of the room to-night, Amy!"

"Nonsense!" she replied, well pleased, though, at my remark. "You must
remember I have a rival in yourself."

I shrugged my shoulders incredulously.

"It is not like you to be sarcastic," I said. "You know very well I
have the air of a resuscitated corpse."

The Colonel wheeled round suddenly, and brought us all up to a
standstill before a great mirror.

"If YOU are like a resuscitated corpse, I'll throw a hundred dollars
into the next mud-pond," he observed. "Look at yourself."

I looked, at first indifferently, and then with searching scrutiny. I
saw a small, slender girl, clad in white, with a mass of gold hair
twisted loosely up from her neck, and fastened with a single star of
diamonds. A superb garniture of natural lilies of the valley was
fastened on this girl's shoulder; and, falling loosely across her
breast, lost itself in the trailing folds of her gown. She held a
palm-leaf fan entirely covered with lilies of the valley, and a girdle
of the same flowers encircled her waist. Her face was serious, but
contented; her eyes were bright, but with an intense and thoughtful
lustre; and her cheeks were softly coloured, as though a west wind had
blown freshly against them. There was nothing either attractive or
repulsive about her that I could see; and yet--I turned away from the
mirror hastily with a faint smile.

"The lilies form the best part of my toilette," I said.

"That they do," asserted Amy, with emphasis. "They are the finest
specimens I ever saw. It was real elegant of Mr. Cellini to send them
all fixed up ready like that, fan and all. You must be a favourite of
his!"

"Come, let us proceed," I answered, with some abruptness. "We are
losing time."

In a few seconds more we entered the ballroom, and were met at once by
Madame Didier, who, resplendent in black lace and diamonds, gave us
hearty greeting. She stared at me with unaffected amazement.

"Mon dieu!" she exclaimed--her conversation with us was always a
mixture of French and broken English--"I should not 'ave know zis young
lady again! She 'ave si bonne mine. You veel dance, sans doute?"

We readily assented, and the usual assortment of dancing-men of all
ages and sizes was brought forward for our inspection; while the
Colonel, being introduced to a beaming English girl of some seventeen
summers, whirled her at once into the merry maze of dancers, who were
spinning easily round to the lively melody of one of Strauss's most
fascinating waltzes. Presently I also found myself circling the room
with an amiable young German, who ambled round with a certain amount of
cleverness, considering that he was evidently ignorant of the actual
waltz step; and I caught a glimpse now and then of Amy's rubies as they
flashed past me in the dance--she was footing it merrily with a
handsome Austrian Hussar. The room was pleasantly full--not too crowded
for the movements of the dancers; and the whole scene was exceedingly
pretty and animated. I had no lack of partners, and I was surprised to
find myself so keenly alive to enjoyment, and so completely free from
my usual preoccupied condition of nervous misery I looked everywhere
for Raffaello Cellini, but he was not to be seen. The lilies that I
wore, which he had sent me, seemed quite unaffected by the heat and
glare of the gaslight--not a leaf drooped, not a petal withered; and
their remarkable whiteness and fragrance elicited many admiring remarks
from those with whom I conversed. It was growing very late; there were
only two more waltzes before the final cotillon. I was standing near
the large open window of the ballroom, conversing with one of my recent
partners, when a sudden inexplicable thrill shot through me from head
to foot. Instinctively I turned, and saw Cellini approaching. He looked
remarkably handsome, though his face was pale and somewhat wearied in
expression. He was laughing and conversing gaily with two ladies, one
of whom was Mrs. Everard; and as he came towards me he bowed
courteously, saying:

"I am too much honoured by the kindness mademoiselle has shown in not
discarding my poor flowers."

"They are lovely," I replied simply; "and I am very much obliged to
you, signor, for sending them to me."

"And how fresh they keep!" said Amy, burying her little nose in the
fragrance of my fan; "yet they have been in the heat of the room all
the evening."

"They cannot perish while mademoiselle wears them," said Cellini
gallantly. "Her breath is their life."

"Bravo!" cried Amy, clapping her hands. "That is very prettily said,
isn't it?"

I was silent. I never could endure compliments. They are seldom
sincere, and it gives me no pleasure to be told lies, however prettily
they may be worded. Signor Cellini appeared to divine my thoughts, for
he said in a lower tone:

"Pardon me, mademoiselle; I see my observation displeased you; but
there is more truth in it than you perhaps know."

"Oh, say!" interrupted Mrs. Everard at this juncture; "I am SO
interested, signor, to hear you are engaged! I suppose she is a dream
of beauty?"

The hot colour rushed to my cheeks, and I bit my lips in confusion and
inquietude. What WOULD he answer? My anxiety was not of long duration.
Cellini smiled, and seemed in no way surprised. He said quietly:

"Who told you, madame, that I am engaged?"

"Why, she did, of course!" went on my friend, nodding towards me,
regardless of an imploring look I cast at her. "And said you were
perfectly devoted!"

"She is quite right," replied Cellini, with another of those rare sweet
smiles of his; "and you also are right, madame, in your supposition: my
betrothed is a Dream of Beauty."

I was infinitely relieved. I had not, then, been guilty of a falsehood.
But the mystery remained: how had I discovered the truth of the matter
at all? While I puzzled my mind over this question, the other lady who
had accompanied Mrs. Everard spoke. She was an Austrian of brilliant
position and attainments.

"You quite interest me, signor!" she said. "Is your fair fiancee here
to-night?"

"No, madame," replied Cellini; "she is not in this country."

"What a pity!" exclaimed Amy. "I want to see her real bad. Don't you?"
she asked, turning to me.

I raised my eyes and met the dark clear ones of the artist fixed full
upon me.

"Yes," I said hesitatingly; "I should like to meet her. Perhaps the
chance will occur at some future time."

"There is not the slightest doubt about that," said Cellini. "And now,
mademoiselle, will you give me the pleasure of this waltz with you? or
are you promised to another partner?"

I was not engaged, and I at once accepted his proffered arm. Two
gentlemen came hurriedly up to claim Amy and her Austrian friend; and
for one brief moment Signor Cellini and I stood alone in a
comparatively quiet corner of the ballroom, waiting for the music to
begin. I opened my lips to ask him a question, when he stopped me by a
slight gesture of his hand.

"Patience!" he said in a low and earnest tone. "In a few moments you
shall have the opportunity you seek."

The band burst forth just then in the voluptuous strains of a waltz by
Gung'l, and together we floated away to its exquisite gliding measure.
I use the word FLOATED, advisedly, for no other term could express the
delightful sensation I enjoyed. Cellini was a superb dancer. It seemed
to me that our feet scarcely touched the floor, so swiftly, so easily
and lightly we sped along. A few rapid turns, and I noticed we were
nearing the open French windows, and, before I well realized it, we had
stopped dancing and were pacing quietly side by side down the ilex
avenue, where the little lanterns twinkled like red fireflies and green
glow-worms among the dark and leafy branches.

We walked along in silence till we reached the end of the path. There,
before us, lay the open garden, with its broad green lawn, bathed in
the lovely light of the full moon, sailing aloft in a cloudless sky.
The night was very warm, but, regardless of this fact, Cellini wrapped
carefully round me a large fleecy white burnous that he had taken from
a chair where it was lying, on his way through the avenue.

"I am not cold," I said, smiling.

"No; but you will be, perhaps. It is not wise to run any useless risks."

I was again silent. A low breeze rustled in the tree-tops near us; the
music of the ballroom reached us only in faint and far echoes; the
scent of roses and myrtle was wafted delicately on the balmy air; the
radiance of the moon softened the outlines of the landscape into a
dreamy suggestiveness of its reality. Suddenly a sound broke on our
ears--a delicious, long, plaintive trill; then a wonderful shower of
sparkling roulades; and finally, a clear, imploring, passionate note
repeated many times. It was a nightingale, singing as only the
nightingales of the South can sing. I listened entranced.

    "'Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
        No hungry generations tread thee down;
      The voice I hear this passing night was heard
        In ancient days by emperor and clown,'"

quoted Cellini in earnest tones.

"You admire Keats?" I asked eagerly.

"More than any other poet that has lived," he replied. "His was the
most ethereal and delicate muse that ever consented to be tied down to
earth. But, mademoiselle, you do not wish to examine me as to my taste
in poetry. You have some other questions to put to me, have you not?"

For one instant I hesitated. Then I spoke out frankly, and answered:

"Yes, signor. What was there in that wine you gave me this morning?"

He met my searching gaze unflinchingly.

"A medicine," he said. "An excellent and perfectly simple remedy made
of the juice of plants, and absolutely harmless."

"But why," I demanded, "why did you give me this medicine? Was it not
wrong to take so much responsibility upon yourself?"

He smiled.

"I think not. If you are injured or offended, then I was wrong; but if,
on the contrary, your health and spirits are ever so little improved,
as I see they are, I deserve your thanks, mademoiselle."

And he waited with an air of satisfaction and expectancy. I was puzzled
and half-angry, yet I could not help acknowledging to myself that I
felt better and more cheerful than I had done for many months. I looked
up at the artist's dark, intelligent face, and said almost humbly:

"I DO thank you, signor. But surely you will tell me your reasons for
constituting yourself my physician without even asking my leave."

He laughed, and his eyes looked very friendly.

"Mademoiselle, I am one of those strangely constituted beings who
cannot bear to see any innocent thing suffer. It matters not whether it
be a worm in the dust, a butterfly in the air, a bird, a flower, or a
human creature. The first time I saw you I knew that your state of
health precluded you from the enjoyment of life natural to your sex and
age. I also perceived that the physicians had been at work upon you
trying to probe into the causes of your ailment, and that they had
signally failed. Physicians, mademoiselle, are very clever and
estimable men, and there are a few things which come within the limit
of their treatment; but there are also other things which baffle their
utmost profundity of knowledge. One of these is that wondrous piece of
human machinery, the nervous system; that intricate and delicate
network of fine threads--electric wires on which run the messages of
thought, impulse, affection, emotion. If these threads or wires become,
from any subtle cause, entangled, the skill of the mere medical
practitioner is of no avail to undo the injurious knot, or to unravel
the confused skein. The drugs generally used in such cases are, for the
most part, repellent to the human blood and natural instinct, therefore
they are always dangerous, and often deadly. I knew, by studying your
face, mademoiselle, that you were suffering as acutely as I, too,
suffered some five years ago, and I ventured to try upon you a simple
vegetable essence, merely to see if you were capable of benefiting by
it. The experiment has been so far successful; but----"

He paused, and his face became graver and more abstracted.

"But what?" I queried eagerly.

"I was about to say," he continued, "that the effect is only
transitory. Within forty-eight hours you must naturally relapse into
your former prostrate condition, and I, unfortunately, am powerless to
prevent it."

I sighed wearily, and a feeling of disappointment oppressed me. Was it
possible that I must again be the victim of miserable dejection, pain,
and stupor?

"You can give me another dose of your remedy," I said.

"That I cannot, mademoiselle," he answered regretfully; "I dare not,
without further advice and guidance."

"Advice and guidance from whom?" I inquired.

"From the friend who cured me of my long and almost hopeless illness,"
said Cellini. "He alone can tell me whether I am right in my theories
respecting your nature and constitution."

"And what are those theories?" I asked, becoming deeply interested in
the conversation.

Cellini was silent for a minute or so; he seemed absorbed in a sort of
inward communion with himself. Then he spoke with impressiveness and
gravity:

"In this world, mademoiselle, there are no two natures alike, yet all
are born with a small portion of Divinity within them, which we call
the Soul. It is a mere spark smouldering in the centre of the weight of
clay with which we are encumbered, yet it is there. Now this particular
germ or seed can be cultivated if we will--that is, if we desire and
insist on its growth. As a child's taste for art or learning can be
educated into high capabilities for the future, so can the human Soul
be educated into so high, so supreme an attainment, that no merely
mortal standard of measurement can reach its magnificence. With much
more than half the inhabitants of the globe, this germ of immortality
remains always a germ, never sprouting, overlaid and weighted down by
the lymphatic laziness and materialistic propensities of its shell or
husk--the body. But I must put aside the forlorn prospect of the
multitudes in whom the Divine Essence attains to no larger quantity
than that proportioned out to a dog or bird--I have only to speak of
the rare few with whom the soul is everything--those who, perceiving
and admitting its existence within them, devote all their powers to
fanning up their spark of light till it becomes a radiant, burning,
inextinguishable flame. The mistake made by these examples of beatified
Humanity is that they too often sacrifice the body to the demands of
the spirit. It is difficult to find the medium path, but it can be
found; and the claims of both body and soul can be satisfied without
sacrificing the one to the other. I beg your earnest attention,
mademoiselle, for what I say concerning THE RARE FEW WITH WHOM THE SOUL
IS EVERYTHING. YOU are one of those few, unless I am greatly in error.
And you have sacrificed your body so utterly to your spirit that the
flesh rebels and suffers. This will not do. You have work before you in
the world, and you cannot perform it unless you have bodily health as
well as spiritual desire. And why? Because you are a prisoner here on
earth, and you must obey the laws of the prison, however unpleasant
they may be to you. Were you free as you have been in ages past and as
you will be in ages to come, things would be different; but at present
you must comply with the orders of your gaolers--the Lords of Life and
Death."

I heard him, half awed, half fascinated. His words were full of
mysterious suggestions.

"How do you know I am of the temperament you describe?" I asked in a
low voice.

"I do not know, mademoiselle; I can only guess. There is but one person
who can perhaps judge of you correctly,--a man older than myself by
many years--whose life is the very acme of spiritual perfection--whose
learning is vast and unprejudiced. I must see and speak to him before I
try any more of my, or rather his, remedies. But we have lingered long
enough out here, and unless you have something more to say to me, we
will return to the ballroom. You will otherwise miss the cotillon;" and
he turned to retrace the way through the illuminated grove.

But a sudden thought had struck me, and I resolved to utter it aloud.
Laying my hand on his arm and looking him full in the face, I said
slowly and distinctly:

"This friend of yours that you speak of--is not his name HELIOBAS?"

Cellini started violently; the blood rushed up to his brows and as
quickly receded, leaving him paler than before. His dark eyes glowed
with suppressed excitement--his hand trembled. Recovering himself
slowly, he met my gaze fixedly; his glance softened, and he bent his
head with an air of respect and reverence.

"Mademoiselle, I see that you must know all. It is your fate. You are
greatly to be envied. Come to me to-morrow, and I will tell you
everything that is to be told. Afterwards your destiny rests in your
own hands. Ask nothing more of me just now."

He escorted me without further words back to the ballroom, where the
merriment of the cotillon was then at its height. Whispering to Mrs.
Everard as I passed her that I was tired and was going to bed, I
reached the outside passage, and there, turning to Cellini, I said
gently:

"Good-night, signor. To-morrow at noon I will come."

He replied:

"Good-night, mademoiselle! To-morrow at noon you will find me ready."

With that he saluted me courteously and turned away. I hurried up to my
own room, and on arriving there I could not help observing the
remarkable freshness of the lilies I wore. They looked as if they had
just been gathered. I unfastened them all from my dress, and placed
them carefully in water; then quickly disrobing, I was soon in bed. I
meditated for a few minutes on the various odd occurrences of the day;
but my thoughts soon grew misty and confused, and I travelled quickly
off into the Land of Nod, and thence into the region of sleep, where I
remained undisturbed by so much as the shadow of a dream.




CHAPTER V.

CELLINI'S STORY.


The following morning at the appointed hour, I went to Cellini's
studio, and was received by him with a sort of gentle courtesy and
kindliness that became him very well. I was already beginning to
experience an increasing languor and weariness, the sure forerunner of
what the artist had prophesied--namely, a return of all my old
sufferings. Amy, tired out by the dancing of the previous night, was
still in bed, as were many of those who had enjoyed Madame Didier's
fete; and the hotel was unusually quiet, almost seeming as though half
the visitors had departed during the night. It was a lovely morning,
sunny and calm; and Cellini, observing that I looked listless and
fatigued, placed a comfortable easy-chair for me near the window, from
whence I could see one of the prettiest parterres of the garden, gay
with flowers of every colour and perfume. He himself remained standing,
one hand resting lightly on his writing-table, which was strewn with a
confusion of letters and newspapers.

"Where is Leo?" I asked, as I glanced round the room in search of that
noble animal.

"Leo left for Paris last night," replied Cellini; "he carried an
important despatch for me, which I feared to trust to the post-office."

"Is it safer in Leo's charge?" I inquired, smiling, for the sagacity of
the dog amused as well as interested me.

"Much safer! Leo carries on his collar a small tin case, just large
enough to contain several folded sheets of paper. When he knows he has
that box to guard during his journeys, he is simply unapproachable. He
would fight any one who attempted to touch it with the ferocity of a
hungry tiger, and there is no edible dainty yet invented that could
tempt his appetite or coax him into any momentary oblivion of his duty.
There is no more trustworthy or faithful messenger."

"I suppose you have sent him to your friend--his master," I said.

"Yes. He has gone straight home to--Heliobas."

This name now awakened in me no surprise or even curiosity. It simply
sounded homelike and familiar. I gazed abstractedly out of the window
at the brilliant blossoms in the garden, that nodded their heads at me
like so many little elves with coloured caps on, but I said nothing. I
felt that Cellini watched me keenly and closely. Presently he continued:

"Shall I tell you everything now, mademoiselle?"

I turned towards him eagerly.

"If you please," I answered.

"May I ask you one question?"

"Certainly."

"How and where did you hear the name of Heliobas?"

I looked up hesitatingly.

"In a dream, signor, strange to say; or rather in three dreams. I will
relate them to you."

And I described the visions I had seen, being careful to omit no
detail, for, indeed, I remembered everything with curious distinctness.

The artist listened with grave and fixed attention. When I had
concluded he said:

"The elixir I gave you acted more potently than even I imagined it
would. You are more sensitive than I thought. Do not fatigue yourself
any more, mademoiselle, by talking. With your permission I will sit
down here opposite to you and tell you my story. Afterwards you must
decide for yourself whether you will adopt the method of treatment to
which I owe my life, and something more than my life--my reason."

He turned his own library-chair towards me, and seated himself. A few
moments passed in silence; his expression was very earnest and
absorbed, and he regarded my face with a sympathetic interest which
touched me profoundly. Though I felt myself becoming more and more
enervated and apathetic as the time went on, and though I knew I was
gradually sinking down again into my old Slough of Despond, yet I felt
instinctively that I was somehow actively concerned in what was about
to be said, therefore I forced myself to attend closely to every word
uttered. Cellini began to speak in low and quiet tones as follows:

"You must be aware, mademoiselle, that those who adopt any art as a
means of livelihood begin the world heavily handicapped--weighted down,
as it were, in the race for fortune. The following of art is a very
different thing to the following of trade or mercantile business. In
buying or selling, in undertaking the work of import or export, a good
head for figures, and an average quantity of shrewd common sense, are
all that is necessary in order to win a fair share of success. But in
the finer occupations, whose results are found in sculpture, painting,
music and poetry, demands are made upon the imagination, the emotions,
the entire spiritual susceptibility of man. The most delicate fibres of
the brain are taxed; the subtle inner workings of thought are brought
into active play; and the temperament becomes daily and hourly more
finely strung, more sensitive, more keenly alive to every passing
sensation. Of course there are many so-called 'ARTISTS' who are mere
shams of the real thing; persons who, having a little surface-education
in one or the other branch of the arts, play idly with the paint-brush,
or dabble carelessly in the deep waters of literature,--or borrow a few
crotchets and quavers from other composers, and putting them together
in haste, call it ORIGINAL COMPOSITION. Among these are to be found the
self-called 'professors' of painting; the sculptors who allow the work
of their 'ghosts' to be admired as their own; the magazine-scribblers;
the 'smart' young leader-writers and critics; the half-hearted
performers on piano or violin who object to any innovation, and prefer
to grind on in the unemotional, coldly correct manner which they are
pleased to term the 'classical'--such persons exist, and will exist, so
long as good and evil are leading forces of life. They are the aphides
on the rose of art. But the men and women I speak of as ARTISTS are
those who work day and night to attain even a small degree of
perfection, and who are never satisfied with their own best efforts. I
was one of these some years ago, and I humbly assert myself still to be
of the same disposition; only the difference between myself then and
myself now is, that THEN I struggled blindly and despairingly, and NOW
I labour patiently and with calmness, knowing positively that I shall
obtain what I seek at the duly appointed hour. I was educated as a
painter, mademoiselle, by my father, a good, simple-hearted man, whose
little landscapes looked like bits cut out of the actual field and
woodland, so fresh and pure were they. But I was not content to follow
in the plain path he first taught me to tread. Merely correct drawing,
merely correct colouring, were not sufficient for my ambition. I had
dazzled my eyes with the loveliness of Correggio's 'Madonna,' and had
marvelled at the wondrous blue of her robe--a blue so deep and intense
that I used to think one might scrape away the paint till a hole was
bored in the canvas and yet not reach the end of that fathomless azure
tint; I had studied the warm hues of Titian; I had felt ready to float
away in the air with the marvellous 'Angel of the Annunciation'--and
with all these thoughts in me, how could I content myself with the
ordinary aspiration of modern artists? I grew absorbed in one
subject--Colour. I noted how lifeless and pale the colouring of to-day
appeared beside that of the old masters, and I meditated deeply on the
problem thus presented to me. What was the secret of Correggio--of Fra
Angelico--of Raphael? I tried various experiments; I bought the most
expensive and highly guaranteed pigments. In vain, for they were all
adulterated by the dealers! Then I obtained colours in the rough, and
ground and mixed them myself; still, though a little better result was
obtained, I found trade adulteration still at work with the oils, the
varnishes, the mediums--in fact, with everything that painters use to
gain effect in their works. I could nowhere escape from vicious
dealers, who, to gain a miserable percentage on every article sold, are
content to be among the most dishonest men in this dishonest age.

"I assure you, mademoiselle, that not one of the pictures which are now
being painted for the salons of Paris and London can possibly last a
hundred years. I recently visited that Palace of Art, the South
Kensington Museum, in London, and saw there a large fresco by Sir
Frederick Leighton. It had just been completed, I was informed. It was
already fading! Within a few years it will be a blur of indistinct
outlines. I compared its condition with the cartoons of Raphael, and a
superb Giorgione in the same building; these were as warm and bright as
though recently painted. It is not Leighton's fault that his works are
doomed to perish as completely off the canvas as though he had never
traced them; it is his dire misfortune, and that of every other
nineteenth-century painter, thanks to the magnificent institution of
free trade, which has resulted in a vulgar competition of all countries
and all classes to see which can most quickly jostle the other out of
existence. But I am wearying you, mademoiselle--pardon me! To resume my
own story. As I told you, I could think of nothing but the one subject
of Colour; it haunted me incessantly. I saw in my dreams visions, of
exquisite forms and faces that I longed to transfer to my canvas, but I
could never succeed in the attempt. My hand seemed to have lost all
skill. About this time my father died, and I, having no other relation
in the world, and no ties of home to cling to, lived in utter solitude,
and tortured my brain more and more with the one question that baffled
and perplexed me. I became moody and irritable; I avoided intercourse
with everyone, and at last sleep forsook my eyes. Then came a terrible
season of feverish trouble, nervous dejection and despair. At times I
would sit silently brooding; at others I started up and walked rapidly
for hours, in the hope to calm the wild unrest that took possession of
my brain. I was then living in Rome, in the studio that had been my
father's. One evening--how well I remember it!--I was attacked by one
of those fierce impulses that forbade me to rest or think or sleep,
and, as usual, I hurried out for one of those long aimless excursions I
had latterly grown accustomed to. At the open street-door stood the
proprietress of the house, a stout, good-natured contadina, with her
youngest child Pippa holding to her skirt. As she saw me approaching,
she started back with an exclamation of alarm, and catching the little
girl up in her arms, she made the sign of the cross rapidly. Astonished
at this, I paused in my hasty walk, and said with as much calmness as I
could muster:

"'What do you mean by that? Have I the evil-eye, think you?'

"Curly-haired Pippa stretched out her arms to me--I had often caressed
the little one, and given her sweetmeats and toys--but her mother held
her back with a sort of smothered scream, and muttered:

"'Holy Virgin! Pippa must not touch him; he is mad.'

"Mad? I looked at the woman and child in scornful amazement. Then
without further words I turned, and went swiftly away down the street
out of their sight. Mad! Was I indeed losing my reason? Was this the
terrific meaning of my sleepless nights, my troubled thoughts, my
strange inquietude? Fiercely I strode along, heedless whither I was
going, till I found myself suddenly on the borders of the desolate
Campagna. A young moon gleamed aloft, looking like a slender sickle
thrust into the heavens to reap an over-abundant harvest of stars. I
paused irresolutely. There was a deep silence everywhere. I felt faint
and giddy: curious flashes of light danced past my eyes, and my limbs
shook like those of a palsied old man. I sank upon a stone to rest, to
try and arrange my scattered ideas into some sort of connection and
order. Mad! I clasped my aching head between my hands, and brooded on
the fearful prospect looming before me, and in the words of poor King
Lear, I prayed in my heart:

  "'O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heavens!'

"PRAYER! There was another thought. How could _I_ pray? For I was a
sceptic. My father had educated me with broadly materialistic views; he
himself was a follower of Voltaire, and with his finite rod he took the
measure of Divinity, greatly to his own satisfaction. He was a good
man, too, and he died with exemplary calmness in the absolute certainty
of there being nothing in his composition but dust, to which he was as
bound to return. He had not a shred of belief in anything but what he
called the Universal Law of Necessity; perhaps this was why all his
pictures lacked inspiration. I accepted his theories without thinking
much about them, and I had managed to live respectably without any
religious belief. But NOW--now with the horrible phantom of madness
rising before me--my firm nerves quailed. I tried, I longed to PRAY.
Yet to whom? To what? To the Universal Law of Necessity? In that there
could be no hearing or answering of human petitions. I meditated on
this with a kind of sombre ferocity. Who portioned out this Law of
Necessity? What brutal Code compels us to be born, to live, to suffer,
and to die without recompense or reason? Why should this Universe be an
ever-circling Wheel of Torture? Then a fresh impetus came to me. I rose
from my recumbent posture and stood erect; I trembled no more. A
curious sensation of defiant amusement possessed me so violently that I
laughed aloud. Such a laugh, too! I recoiled from the sound, as from a
blow, with a shudder. It was the laugh of--a madman! I thought no more;
I was resolved. I would fulfil the grim Law of Necessity to its letter.
If Necessity caused my birth, it also demanded my death. Necessity
could not force me to live against my will. Better eternal nothingness
than madness. Slowly and deliberately I took from my vest a Milanese
dagger of thin sharp steel--one that I always carried with me as a
means of self-defence--I drew it from its sheath, and looked at the
fine edge glittering coldly in the pallid moon-rays. I kissed it
joyously; it was my final remedy! I poised it aloft with firm
fingers--another instant and it would have been buried deep in my
heart, when I felt a powerful grasp on my wrist, and a strong arm
struggling with mine forced the dagger from my hand. Savagely angry at
being thus foiled in my desperate intent, I staggered back a few paces
and sullenly stared at my rescuer. He was a tall man, clad in a dark
overcoat bordered with fur; he looked like a wealthy Englishman or
American travelling for pleasure. His features were fine and
commanding; his eyes gleamed with a gentle disdain as he coolly met my
resentful gaze. When he spoke his voice was rich and mellifluous,
though his accents had a touch in them of grave scorn.

"'So you are tired of your life, young man! All the more reason have
you to live. Anyone can die. A murderer has moral force enough to jeer
at his hangman. It is very easy to draw the last breath. It can be
accomplished successfully by a child or a warrior. One pang of far less
anguish than the toothache, and all is over. There is nothing heroic
about it, I assure you! It is as common as going to bed; it is almost
prosy. LIFE is heroism, if you like; but death is a mere cessation of
business. And to make a rapid and rude exit off the stage before the
prompter gives the sign is always, to say the least of it, ungraceful.
Act the part out, no matter how bad the play. What say you?'

"And, balancing the dagger lightly on one finger, as though it were a
paper-knife, he smiled at me with so much frank kindliness that it was
impossible to resist him. I advanced and held out my hand.

"'Whoever you are,' I said, 'you speak like a true man. But you are
ignorant of the causes which compelled me to---' and a hard sob choked
my utterance. My new acquaintance pressed my proffered hand cordially,
but the gravity of his tone did not vary as he replied:

"'There is no cause, my friend, which compels us to take violent leave
of existence, unless it be madness or cowardice.'

"'Aye, and what if it were madness?' I asked him eagerly. He scanned me
attentively, and laying his fingers lightly on my wrist, felt my pulse.

"'Pooh, my dear sir!' he said; 'you are no more mad than I am. You are
a little overwrought and excited--that I admit. You have some mental
worry that consumes you. You shall tell me all about it. I have no
doubt I can cure you in a few days.'

"Cure me? I looked at him in wonderment and doubt.

"'Are you a physician?' I asked.

"He laughed. 'Not I! I should be sorry to belong to the profession. Yet
I administer medicines and give advice in certain cases. I am simply a
remedial agent--not a doctor. But why do we stand here in this bleak
place, which must be peopled by the ghosts of olden heroes? Come with
me, will you? I am going to the Hotel Costanza, and we can talk there.
As for this pretty toy, permit me to return it to you. You will not
force it again to the unpleasant task of despatching its owner.'

"And he handed the dagger back to me with a slight bow. I sheathed it
at once, feeling somewhat like a chidden child, as I met the slightly
satirical gleam of the clear blue eyes that watched me.

"'Will you give me your name, signor?' I asked, as we turned from the
Campagna towards the city.

"'With pleasure. I am called Heliobas. A strange name? Oh, not at all!
It is pure Chaldee. My mother--as lovely an Eastern houri as Murillo's
Madonna, and as devout as Santa Teresa--gave me the Christian saint's
name of Casimir also, but Heliobas pur et simple suits me best, and by
it I am generally known.'

"'You are a Chaldean?' I inquired.

"'Exactly so. I am descended directly from one of those "wise men of
the East" (and, by the way, there were more than three, and they were
not all kings), who, being wide awake, happened to notice the
birth-star of Christ on the horizon before the rest of the world's
inhabitants had so much as rubbed their sleepy eyes. The Chaldeans have
been always quick of observation from time immemorial. But in return
for my name, you will favour me with yours?'

"I gave it readily, and we walked on together. I felt wonderfully
calmed and cheered--as soothed, mademoiselle, as I have noticed you
yourself have felt when in MY company."

Here Cellini paused, and looked at me as though expecting a question;
but I preferred to remain silent till I had heard all he had to say. He
therefore resumed:

"We reached the Hotel Costanza, where Heliobas was evidently well
known. The waiters addressed him as Monsieur le Comte; but he gave me
no information as to this title. He had a superb suite of rooms in the
hotel, furnished with every modern luxury; and as soon as we entered a
light supper was served. He invited me to partake, and within the space
of half an hour I had told him all my history--my ambition--my
strivings after the perfection of colour--my disappointment, dejection,
and despair--and, finally, the fearful dread of coming madness that had
driven me to attempt my own life. He listened patiently and with
unbroken attention. When I had finished, he laid one hand on my
shoulder, and said gently:

"'Young man, pardon me if I say that up to the present your career has
been an inactive, useless, selfish "kicking against the pricks," as St.
Paul says. You set before yourself a task of noble effort, namely, to
discover the secret of colouring as known to the old masters; and
because you meet with the petty difficulty of modern trade adulteration
in your materials, you think that there is no chance--that all is lost.
Fie! Do you think Nature is overcome by a few dishonest traders? She
can still give you in abundance the unspoilt colours she gave to
Raphael and Titian; but not in haste--not if you vulgarly scramble for
her gifts in a mood that is impatient of obstacle and delay. "Ohne
hast, ohne rast," is the motto of the stars. Learn it well. You have
injured your bodily health by useless fretfulness and peevish
discontent, and with that we have first to deal. In a week's time, I
will make a sound, sane man of you; and then I will teach you how to
get the colours you seek--yes!' he added, smiling, 'even to the
compassing of Correggio's blue.'

"I could not speak for joy and gratitude; I grasped my friend and
preserver by the hand. We stood thus together for a brief interval,
when suddenly Heliobas drew himself up to the full stateliness of his
height and bent his calm eyes deliberately upon me. A strange thrill
ran through me; I still held his hand.

"'Rest!' he said in slow and emphatic tones, 'Weary and overwrought
frame, take thy full and needful measure of repose! Struggling and
deeply injured spirit, be free of thy narrow prison! By that Force
which I acknowledge within me and thee and in all created things, I
command thee, REST!'

"Fascinated, awed, overcome by his manner, I gazed at him and would
have spoken, but my tongue refused its office--my senses swam--my eyes
closed--my limbs gave way--I fell senseless."

Cellini again paused and looked at me. Intent on his words, I would not
interrupt him. He went on:

"When I say senseless, mademoiselle, I allude of course to my body. But
I, myself--that is, my soul--was conscious; I lived, I moved, I heard,
I saw. Of that experience I am forbidden to speak. When I returned to
mortal existence I found myself lying on a couch in the same room where
I had supped with Heliobas, and Heliobas himself sat near me reading.
It was broad noonday. A delicious sense of tranquillity and youthful
buoyancy was upon me, and without speaking I sprang up from my
recumbent position and touched him on the arm. He looked up.

"'Well?' he asked, and his eyes smiled.

"I seized his hand, and pressed it reverently to my lips.

"'My best friend!' I exclaimed. 'What wonders have I not seen--what
truths have I not learned--what mysteries!'

"'On all these things be silent,' replied Heliobas. 'They must not be
lightly spoken of. And of the questions you naturally desire to ask me,
you shall have the answers in due time. What has happened to you is not
wonderful; you have simply been acted upon by scientific means. But
your cure is not yet complete. A few days more passed with me will
restore you thoroughly. Will you consent to remain so long in my
company?'

"Gladly and gratefully I consented, and we spent the next ten days
together, during which Heliobas administered to me certain remedies,
external and internal, which had a marvellous effect in renovating and
invigorating my system. By the expiration of that time I was strong and
well--a sound and sane man, as my rescuer had promised I should be--my
brain was fresh and eager for work, and my mind was filled with new and
grand ideas of art. And I had gained through Heliobas two inestimable
things--a full comprehension of the truth of religion, and the secret
of human destiny; and I had won a LOVE so exquisite!"

Here Cellini paused, and his eyes were uplifted in a sort of wondering
rapture. He continued after a pause:

"Yes, mademoiselle, I discovered that I was loved, and watched over and
guided by ONE so divinely beautiful, so gloriously faithful, that
mortal language fails before the description of such perfection!"

He paused again, and again continued:

"When he found me perfectly healthy again in mind and body, Heliobas
showed me his art of mixing colours. From that hour all my works were
successful. You know that my pictures are eagerly purchased as soon as
completed, and that the colour I obtain in them is to the world a
mystery almost magical. Yet there is not one among the humblest of
artists who could not, if he chose, make use of the same means as I
have done to gain the nearly imperishable hues that still glow on the
canvases of Raphael. But of this there is no need to speak just now. I
have told you my story, mademoiselle, and it now rests with me to apply
its meaning to yourself. You are attending?"

"Perfectly," I replied; and, indeed, my interest at this point was so
strong that I could almost hear the expectant beating of my heart.
Cellini resumed:

"Electricity, mademoiselle, is, as you are aware, the wonder of our
age. No end can be foreseen to the marvels it is capable of
accomplishing. But one of the most important branches of this great
science is ignorantly derided just now by the larger portion of
society--I mean the use of human electricity; that force which is in
each one of us--in you and in me--and, to a very large extent, in
Heliobas. He has cultivated the electricity in his own system to such
an extent that his mere touch, his lightest glance, have healing in
them, or the reverse, as he chooses to exert his power--I may say it is
never the reverse, for he is full of kindness, sympathy, and pity for
all humanity. His influence is so great that he can, without speaking,
by his mere presence suggest his own thoughts to other people who are
perfect strangers, and cause them to design and carry out certain
actions in accordance with his plans. You are incredulous?
Mademoiselle, this power is in every one of us; only we do not
cultivate it, because our education is yet so imperfect. To prove the
truth of what I say, _I_, though I have only advanced a little way in
the cultivation of my own electric force, even _I_ have influenced YOU.
You cannot deny it. By my thought, impelled to you, you saw clearly my
picture that was actually veiled. By MY force, you replied correctly to
a question I asked you concerning that same picture. By MY desire, you
gave me, without being aware of it, a message from one I love when you
said, 'Dieu vous garde!' You remember? And the elixir I gave you, which
is one of the simplest remedies discovered by Heliobas, had the effect
of making you learn what he intended you to learn--his name."

"He!" I exclaimed. "Why, he does not know me--he can have no intentions
towards me!"

"Mademoiselle," replied Cellini gravely, "if you will think again of
the last of your three dreams, you will not doubt that he HAS
intentions towards you. As I told you, he is a PHYSICAL ELECTRICIAN. By
that is meant a great deal. He knows by instinct whether he is or will
be needed sooner or later. Let me finish what I have to say. You are
ill, mademoiselle--ill from over-work. You are an improvisatrice--that
is, you have the emotional genius of music, a spiritual thing
unfettered by rules, and utterly misunderstood by the world. You
cultivate this faculty, regardless of cost; you suffer, and you will
suffer more. In proportion as your powers in music grow, so will your
health decline. Go to Heliobas; he will do for you what he did for me.
Surely you will not hesitate? Between years of weak invalidism and
perfect health, in less than a fortnight, there can be no question of
choice."

I rose from my seat slowly.

"Where is this Heliobas?" I asked. "In Paris?"

"Yes, in Paris. If you decide to go there, take my advice, and go
alone. You can easily make some excuse to your friends. I will give you
the address of a ladies' Pension, where you will be made at home and
comfortable. May I do this?"

"If you please," I answered.

He wrote rapidly in pencil on a card of his own:

   "MADAME DENISE,
   "36, Avenue du Midi,
   "Paris,"

and handed it to me. I stood still where I had risen, thinking deeply.
I had been impressed and somewhat startled by Cellini's story; but I
was in no way alarmed at the idea of trusting myself to the hands of a
physical electrician such as Heliobas professed to be. I knew that
there were many cases of serious illnesses being cured by means of
electricity--that electric baths and electric appliances of all
descriptions were in ordinary use; and I saw no reason to be surprised
at the fact of a man being in existence who had cultivated electric
force within himself to such an extent that he was able to use it as a
healing power. There seemed to me to be really nothing extraordinary in
it. The only part of Cellini's narration I did not credit was the
soul-transmigration he professed to have experienced; and I put that
down to the over-excitement of his imagination at the time of his first
interview with Heliobas. But I kept this thought to myself. In any
case, I resolved to go to Paris. The great desire of my life was to be
in perfect health, and I determined to omit no means of obtaining this
inestimable blessing. Cellini watched me as I remained standing before
him in silent abstraction.

"Will you go?" he inquired at last.

"Yes; I will go," I replied. "But will you give me a letter to your
friend?"

"Leo has taken it and all necessary explanations already," said
Cellini, smiling; "I knew you would go. Heliobas expects you the day
after to-morrow. His residence is Hotel Mars, Champs Elysees. You are
not angry with me, mademoiselle? I could not help knowing that you
would go."

I smiled faintly.

"Electricity again, I suppose! No, I am not angry. Why should I be? I
thank you very much, signor, and I shall thank you more if Heliobas
indeed effects my cure."

"Oh, that is certain, positively certain," answered Cellini; "you can
indulge that hope as much as you like, mademoiselle, for it is one that
cannot be disappointed. Before you leave me, you will look at your own
picture, will you not?" and, advancing to his easel, he uncovered it.

I was greatly surprised. I thought he had but traced the outline of my
features, whereas the head was almost completed. I looked at it as I
would look at the portrait of a stranger. It was a wistful, sad-eyed,
plaintive face, and on the pale gold of the hair rested a coronal of
lilies.

"It will soon be finished," said Cellini, covering the easel again; "I
shall not need another sitting, which is fortunate, as it is so
necessary for you to go away. And now will you look at the 'Life and
Death' once more?"

I raised my eyes to the grand picture, unveiled that day in all its
beauty.

"The face of the Life-Angel there," went on Cellini quietly, "is a poor
and feeble resemblance of the One I love. You knew I was betrothed,
mademoiselle?"

I felt confused, and was endeavouring to find an answer to this when he
continued:

"Do not trouble to explain, for _I_ know how YOU knew. But no more of
this. Will you leave Cannes to-morrow?"

"Yes. In the morning."

"Then good-bye, mademoiselle. Should I never see you again---"

"Never see me again!" I interrupted. "Why, what do you mean?"

"I do not allude to your destinies, but to mine," he said, with a
kindly look. "My business may call me away from here before you come
back--our paths may lie apart--many circumstances may occur to prevent
our meeting--so that, I repeat, should I never see you again, you will,
I hope, bear me in your friendly remembrance as one who was sorry to
see you suffer, and who was the humble means of guiding you to renewed
health and happiness."

I held out my hand, and my eyes filled with tears. There was something
so gentle and chivalrous about him, and withal so warm and sympathetic,
that I felt indeed as if I were bidding adieu to one of the truest
friends I should ever have in my life.

"I hope nothing will cause you to leave Cannes till I return to it," I
said with real earnestness. "I should like you to judge of my
restoration to health."

"There will be no need for that," he replied; "I shall know when you
are quite recovered through Heliobas."

He pressed my hand warmly.

"I brought back the book you lent me," I went on; "but I should like a
copy of it for myself. Can I get it anywhere?"

"Heliobas will give you one with pleasure," replied Cellini; "you have
only to make the request. The book is not on sale. It was printed for
private circulation only. And now, mademoiselle, we part. I
congratulate you on the comfort and joy awaiting you in Paris. Do not
forget the address--Hotel Mars, Champs Elysees. Farewell!"

And again shaking my hand cordially, he stood at his door watching me
as I passed out and began to ascend the stairs leading to my room. On
the landing I paused, and, looking round, saw him still there. I smiled
and waved my hand. He did the same in response, once--twice; then
turning abruptly, disappeared.

That afternoon I explained to Colonel and Mrs. Everard that I had
resolved to consult a celebrated physician in Paris (whose name,
however, I did not mention), and should go there alone for a few days.
On hearing that I knew of a well-recommended ladies' Pension, they made
no objection to my arrangements, and they agreed to remain at the Hotel
de L---till I returned. I gave them no details of my plans, and of
course never mentioned Raffaello Cellini in connection with the matter.
A nervous and wretchedly agitated night made me more than ever
determined to try the means of cure proposed to me. At ten o'clock the
following morning I left Cannes by express train for Paris. Just before
starting I noticed that the lilies of the valley Cellini had given me
for the dance had, in spite of my care, entirely withered, and were
already black with decay--so black that they looked as though they had
been scorched by a flash of lightning.




CHAPTER VI.

THE HOTEL MARS AND ITS OWNER.


It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon of the day
succeeding the night of my arrival in Paris, when I found myself
standing at the door of the Hotel Mars, Champs Elysees. I had proved
the Pension kept by Madame Denise to be everything that could be
desired; and on my presentation of Raffaello Cellini's card of
introduction, I had been welcomed by the maitresse de la maison with a
cordial effusiveness that amounted almost to enthusiasm.

"Ce cher Cellini!" the cheery and pleasant little woman had exclaimed,
as she set before me a deliciously prepared breakfast. "Je l'aime tant!
Il a si bon coeur! et ses beaux yeux! Mon Dieu, comme un ange!"

As soon as I had settled the various little details respecting my room
and attendance, and had changed my travelling-dress for a quiet
visiting toilette, I started for the abode of Heliobas.

The weather was very cold; I had left the summer behind me at Cannes,
to find winter reigning supreme in Paris. A bitter east wind blew, and
a few flakes of snow fell now and then from the frowning sky. The house
to which I betook myself was situated at a commanding corner of a road
facing the Champs Elysees. It was a noble-looking building. The broad
steps leading to the entrance were guarded on either side by a
sculptured Sphinx, each of whom held, in its massive stone paws, a
plain shield, inscribed with the old Roman greeting to strangers,
"Salve!" Over the portico was designed a scroll which bore the name
"Hotel Mars" in clearly cut capitals, and the monogram "C. H."

I ascended the steps with some hesitation, and twice I extended my hand
towards the bell, desiring yet fearing to awaken its summons. I noticed
it was an electric bell, not needing to be pulled but pressed; and at
last, after many doubts and anxious suppositions, I very gently laid my
fingers on the little button which formed its handle. Scarcely had I
done this than the great door slid open rapidly without the least
noise. I looked for the servant in attendance--there was none. I paused
an instant; the door remained invitingly open, and through it I caught
a glimpse of flowers. Resolving to be bold, and to hesitate no longer,
I entered. As I crossed the threshold, the door closed behind me
instantly with its previous swiftness and silence.

I found myself in a spacious hall, light and lofty, surrounded with
fluted pillars of white marble. In the centre a fountain bubbled
melodiously, and tossed up every now and then a high jet of sparkling
spray, while round its basin grew the rarest ferns and exotics, which
emitted a subtle and delicate perfume. No cold air penetrated here; it
was as warm and balmy as a spring day in Southern Italy. Light Indian
bamboo chairs provided with luxurious velvet cushions were placed in
various corners between the marble columns, and on one of these I
seated myself to rest a minute, wondering what I should do next, and
whether anyone would come to ask me the cause of my intrusion. My
meditations were soon put to flight by the appearance of a young lad,
who crossed the hall from the left-hand side and approached me. He was
a handsome boy of twelve or thirteen years of age, and he was attired
in a simple Greek costume of white linen, relieved with a broad crimson
silk sash. A small flat crimson cap rested on his thick black curls;
this he lifted with deferential grace, and, saluting me, said
respectfully:

"My master is ready to receive you, mademoiselle."

I rose without a word and followed him, scarcely permitting myself to
speculate as to how his master knew I was there at all.

The hall was soon traversed, and the lad paused before a magnificent
curtain of deep crimson velvet, heavily bordered with gold. Pulling a
twisted cord that hung beside it, the heavy, regal folds parted in
twain with noiseless regularity, and displayed an octagon room, so
exquisitely designed and ornamented that I gazed upon it as upon some
rare and beautiful picture. It was unoccupied, and my young escort
placed a chair for me near the central window, informing me as he did
so that "Monsieur le Comte" would be with me instantly; whereupon he
departed.

Left alone, I gazed in bewilderment at the loveliness round me. The
walls and ceiling were painted in fresco. I could not make out the
subjects, but I could see faces of surpassing beauty smiling from
clouds, and peering between stars and crescents. The furniture appeared
to be of very ancient Arabian design; each chair was a perfect
masterpiece of wood-carving, picked out and inlaid with gold. The sight
of a semi-grand piano, which stood open, brought me back to the
realization that I was living in modern times, and not in a dream of
the Arabian Nights; while the Paris Figaro and the London Times--both
of that day's issue--lying on a side-table, demonstrated the nineteenth
century to me with every possible clearness. There were flowers
everywhere in this apartment--in graceful vases and in gilded osier
baskets--and a queer lop-sided Oriental jar stood quite near me, filled
almost to overflowing with Neapolitan violets. Yet it was winter in
Paris, and flowers were rare and costly.

Looking about me, I perceived an excellent cabinet photograph of
Raffaello Cellini, framed in antique silver; and I rose to examine it
more closely, as being the face of a friend. While I looked at it, I
heard the sound of an organ in the distance playing softly an old
familiar church chant. I listened. Suddenly I bethought myself of the
three dreams that had visited me, and a kind of nervous dread came upon
me. This Heliobas,--was I right after all in coming to consult him? Was
he not perhaps a mere charlatan? and might not his experiments upon me
prove fruitless, and possibly fatal? An idea seized me that I would
escape while there was yet time. Yes! ... I would not see him to-day,
at any rate; I would write and explain. These and other disjointed
thoughts crossed my mind; and yielding to the unreasoning impulse of
fear that possessed me, I actually turned to leave the room, when I saw
the crimson velvet portiere dividing again in its regular and graceful
folds, and Heliobas himself entered.

I stood mute and motionless. I knew him well; he was the very man I had
seen in my third and last dream; the same noble, calm features; the
same commanding presence; the same keen, clear eyes; the same
compelling smile. There was nothing extraordinary about his appearance
except his stately bearing and handsome countenance; his dress was that
of any well-to-do gentleman of the present day, and there was no
affectation of mystery in his manner. He advanced and bowed
courteously; then, with a friendly look, held out his hand. I gave him
mine at once.

"So you are the young musician?" he said, in those warm mellifluous
accents that I had heard before and that I so well remembered. "My
friend Raffaello Cellini has written to me about you. I hear you have
been suffering from physical depression?"

He spoke as any physician might do who inquired after a patient's
health. I was surprised and relieved. I had prepared myself for
something darkly mystical, almost cabalistic; but there was nothing
unusual in the demeanour of this pleasant and good-looking gentleman
who, bidding me be seated, took a chair himself opposite to me, and
observed me with that sympathetic and kindly interest which any
well-bred doctor would esteem it his duty to exhibit. I became quite at
ease, and answered all his questions fully and frankly. He felt my
pulse in the customary way, and studied my face attentively. I
described all my symptoms, and he listened with the utmost patience.
When I had concluded, he leaned back in his chair and appeared to
ponder deeply for some moments. Then he spoke.

"You know, of course, that I am not a doctor?"

"I know," I said; "Signer Cellini explained to me."

"Ah!" and Heliobas smiled. "Raffaello explained as much as he might;
but not everything. I must tell you I have a simple pharmacopoeia of my
own--it contains twelve remedies, and only twelve. In fact there me no
more that are of any use to the human mechanism. All are made of the
juice of plants, and six of them are electric. Raffaello tried you with
one of them, did he not?"

As he put this question, I was aware of a keenly inquiring look sent
from the eyes of my interrogator into mine.

"Yes," I answered frankly, "and it made me dream, and I dreamt of YOU."

Heliobas laughed lightly.

"So!--that is well. Now I am going in the first place to give you what
I am sure will be satisfactory information. If you agree to trust
yourself to my care, you will be in perfect health in a little less
than a fortnight--but you must follow my rules exactly."

I started up from my seat.

"Of course!" I exclaimed eagerly, forgetting all my previous fear of
him; "I will do all you advise, even if you wish to magnetize me as you
magnetized Signor Cellini!"

"I never MAGNETIZED Raffaello," he said gravely; "he was on the verge
of madness, and he had no faith whereby to save himself. I simply set
him free for a time, knowing that his was a genius which would find out
things for itself or perish in the effort. I let him go on a voyage of
discovery, and he came back perfectly satisfied. That is all. You do
not need his experience."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"You are a woman--your desire is to be well and strong, health being
beauty--to love and to be beloved--to wear pretty toilettes and to be
admired; and you have a creed which satisfies you, and which you
believe in without proofs."

There was the slightest possible tinge of mockery in his voice as he
said these words. A tumultuous rush of feelings overcame me. My high
dreams of ambition, my innate scorn of the trite and commonplace, my
deep love of art, my desires of fame--all these things bore down upon
my heart and overcame it, and a pride too deep for tears arose in me
and found utterance.

"You think I am so slight and weak a thing!" I exclaimed. "YOU, who
profess to understand the secrets of electricity--you have no better
instinctive knowledge of me than that! Do you deem women all alike--all
on one common level, fit for nothing but to be the toys or drudges of
men? Can you not realize that there are some among them who despise the
inanities of everyday life--who care nothing for the routine of
society, and whose hearts are filled with cravings that no mere human
love or life can satisfy? Yes--even weak women are capable of
greatness; and if we do sometimes dream of what we cannot accomplish
through lack of the physical force necessary for large achievements,
that is not our fault but our misfortune. We did not create ourselves.
We did not ask to be born with the over-sensitiveness, the fatal
delicacy, the highly-strung nervousness of the feminine nature.
Monsieur Heliobas, you are a learned and far-seeing man, I have no
doubt; but you do not read me aright if you judge me as a mere woman
who is perfectly contented with the petty commonplaces of ordinary
living. And as for my creed, what is it to you whether I kneel in the
silence of my own room or in the glory of a lighted cathedral to pour
out my very soul to ONE whom I know exists, and whom I am satisfied to
believe in, as you say, without proofs, save such proofs as I obtain
from my own inner consciousness? I tell you, though, in your opinion it
is evident my sex is against me, I would rather die than sink into the
miserable nonentity of such lives as are lived by the majority of
women."

I paused, overcome by my own feelings. Heliobas smiled.

"So! You are stung!" he said quietly; "stung into action. That is as it
should be. Resume your seat, mademoiselle, and do not be angry with me.
I am studying you for your own good. In the meantime permit me to
analyze your words a little. You are young and inexperienced. You speak
of the 'over-sensitiveness, the fatal delicacy, the highly-strung
nervousness of the feminine nature.' My dear lady, if you had lived as
long as I have, you would know that these are mere stock phrases--for
the most part meaningless. As a rule, women are less sensitive than
men. There are many of your sex who are nothing but lumps of lymph and
fatty matter--women with less instinct than the dumb beasts, and with
more brutality. There are others who,--adding the low cunning of the
monkey to the vanity of the peacock,--seek no other object but the
furtherance of their own designs, which are always petty even when not
absolutely mean. There are obese women whose existence is a doze
between dinner and tea. There are women with thin lips and pointed
noses, who only live to squabble over domestic grievances and interfere
in their neighbours' business. There are your murderous women with
large almond eyes, fair white hands, and voluptuous red lips, who,
deprived of the dagger or the poison-bowl, will slay a reputation in a
few lazily enunciated words, delivered with a perfectly high-bred
accent. There are the miserly woman, who look after cheese-parings and
candle-ends, and lock up the soap. There are the spiteful women whose
very breath is acidity and venom. There are the frivolous women whose
chitter-chatter and senseless giggle are as empty as the rattling of
dry peas on a drum. In fact, the delicacy of women is extremely
overrated--their coarseness is never done full justice to. I have heard
them recite in public selections of a kind that no man would dare to
undertake--such as Tennyson's 'Rizpah,' for instance. I know a woman
who utters every line of it, with all its questionable allusions,
boldly before any and everybody, without so much as an attempt at
blushing. I assure you men are far more delicate than women--far more
chivalrous--far larger in their views, and more generous in their
sentiments. But I will not deny the existence of about four women in
every two hundred and fifty, who may be, and possibly are, examples of
what the female sex was originally intended to be--pure-hearted,
self-denying, gentle and truthful--filled with tenderness and
inspiration. Heaven knows my own mother was all this and more! And my
sister is--. But let me speak to you of yourself. You love music, I
understand--you are a professional artist?"

"I was," I answered, "till my state of health stopped me from working."

Heliobas bent his eyes upon me in friendly sympathy.

"You were, and you will be again, an improvisatrice" he went on. "Do
you not find it difficult to make your audiences understand your aims?"

I smiled as the remembrance of some of my experiences in public came to
my mind.

"Yes," I said, half laughing. "In England, at least, people do not know
what is meant by IMPROVISING. They think it is to take a little theme
and compose variations on it--the mere ABC of the art. But to sit down
to the piano and plan a whole sonata or symphony in your head, and play
it while planning it, is a thing they do not and will not understand.
They come to hear, and they wonder and go away, and the critics declare
it to be CLAP-TRAP."

"Exactly!" replied Heliobas. "But you are to be congratulated on having
attained this verdict. Everything that people cannot quite understand
is called CLAP-TRAP in England; as for instance the matchless
violin-playing of Sarasate; the tempestuous splendor of Rubinstein; the
wailing throb of passion in Hollmann's violoncello--this is, according
to the London press, CLAP-TRAP; while the coldly correct performances
of Joachim and the 'icily-null' renderings of Charles Halle are voted
'magnificent' and 'full of colour.' But to return to yourself. Will you
play to me?"

"I have not touched the instrument for two months," I said; "I am
afraid I am out of practice."

"Then you shall not exert yourself to-day," returned Heliobas kindly.
"But I believe I can help you with your improvisations. You compose the
music as you play, you tell me. Well, have you any idea how the
melodies or the harmonies form themselves in your brain?"

"Not the least in the world," I replied.

"Is the act of thinking them out an effort to you?" he asked.

"Not at all. They come as though someone else were planning them for
me."

"Well, well! I think I can certainly be of use to you in this matter as
in others. I understand your temperament thoroughly. And now let me
give you my first prescription."

He went to a corner of the room and lifted from the floor an ebony
casket, curiously carved and ornamented with silver. This he unlocked.
It contained twelve flasks of cut glass, stoppered with gold and
numbered in order. He next pulled out a side drawer in this casket, and
in it I saw several little thin empty glass tubes, about the size of a
cigarette-holder. Taking two of these he filled them from two of the
larger flasks, corked them tightly, and then turning to me, said:

"To-night, on going to bed, have a warm bath, empty the contents of the
tube marked No. 1 into it, and then immerse yourself thoroughly for
about five minutes. After the bath, put the fluid in this other tube
marked 2, into a tumbler of fresh spring water, and drink it off. Then
go straight to bed."

"Shall I have any dreams?" I inquired with a little anxiety.

"Certainly not," replied Heliobas, smiling. "I wish you to sleep as
soundly as a year-old child. Dreams are not for you to-night. Can you
come to me tomorrow afternoon at five o'clock? If you can arrange to
stay to dinner, my sister will be pleased to meet you; but perhaps you
are otherwise engaged?"

I told him I was not, and explained where I had taken rooms, adding
that I had come to Paris expressly to put myself under his treatment.

"You shall have no cause to regret this journey," he said earnestly. "I
can cure you thoroughly, and I will. I forget your nationality--you are
not English?"

"No, not entirely. I am half Italian."

"Ah, yes! I remember now. But you have been educated in England?"

"Partly."

"I am glad it is only partly," remarked Heliobas. "If it had been
entirely, your improvisations would have had no chance. In fact you
never would have improvised. You would have played the piano like poor
mechanical Arabella Goddard. As it is, there is some hope of
originality in you--you need not be one of the rank and file unless you
choose."

"I do not choose," I said.

"Well, but you must take the consequences, and they are bitter. A woman
who does not go with her time is voted eccentric; a woman who prefers
music to tea and scandal is an undesirable acquaintance; and a woman
who prefers Byron to Austin Dobson is--in fact, no measure can gauge
her general impossibility!" I laughed gaily. "I will take all the
consequences as willingly as I will take your medicines," I said,
stretching out my hand for the little vases which he gave me wrapped in
paper. "And I thank you very much, monsieur. And"--here I hesitated.
Ought I not to ask him his fee? Surely the medicines ought to be paid
for?

Heliobas appeared to read my thoughts, for he said, as though answering
my unuttered question:

"I do not accept fees, mademoiselle. To relieve your mind from any
responsibility of gratitude to me, I will tell you at once that I never
promise to effect a cure unless I see that the person who comes to be
cured has a certain connection with myself. If the connection exists I
am bound by fixed laws to serve him or her. Of course I am able also to
cure those who are NOT by nature connected with me; but then I have to
ESTABLISH a connection, and this takes time, and is sometimes very
difficult to accomplish, almost as tremendous a task as the laying down
of the Atlantic cable. But in your case I am actually COMPELLED to do
my best for you, so you need be under no sense of obligation."

Here was a strange speech--the first really inexplicable one I had
heard from his lips.

"I am connected with you?" I asked, surprised. "How? In what way?"

"It would take too long to explain to you just now," said Heliobas
gently; "but I can prove to you in a moment that a connection DOES
exist between YOUR inner self, and MY inner self, if you wish it."

"I do wish it very much," I answered.

"Then take my hand," continued Heliobas, stretching it out, "and look
steadily at me."

I obeyed, half trembling. As I gazed, a veil appeared to fall from my
eyes. A sense of security, of comfort, and of absolute confidence came
upon me, and I saw what might be termed THE IMAGE OF ANOTHER FACE
looking at me THROUGH or BEHIND the actual form and face of Heliobas.
And that other face was his, and yet not his; but whatever it appeared
to be, it was the face of a friend to ME, one that I was certain I had
known long, long ago, and moreover one that I must have loved in some
distant time, for my whole soul seemed to yearn towards that indistinct
haze where smiled the fully recognised yet unfamiliar countenance. This
strange sensation lasted but a few seconds, for Heliobas suddenly
dropped my hand. The room swam round me; the walls seemed to rock; then
everything steadied and came right again, and all was as usual, only I
was amazed and bewildered.

"What does it mean?" I murmured.

"It means the simplest thing in nature," replied Heliobas quietly,
"namely, that your soul and mine are for some reason or other placed on
the same circle of electricity. Nothing more nor less. Therefore we
must serve each other. Whatever I do for you, you have it in your power
to repay me amply for hereafter."

I met the steady glance of his keen eyes, and a sense of some
indestructible force within me gave me a sudden courage.

"Decide for me as you please," I answered fearlessly. "I trust you
completely, though I do not know why I do so."

"You will know before long. You are satisfied of the fact that my touch
can influence you?"

"Yes; most thoroughly."

"Very well. All other explanations, if you desire them, shall be given
you in due time. In the power I possess over you and some others, there
is neither mesmerism nor magnetism--nothing but a purely scientific
fact which can be clearly and reasonably proved and demonstrated. But
till you are thoroughly restored to health, we will defer all
discussion. And now, mademoiselle, permit me to escort you to the door.
I shall expect you to-morrow."

Together we left the beautiful room in which this interview had taken
place, and crossed the hall. As we approached the entrance, Heliobas
turned towards me and said with a smile:

"Did not the manoeuvres of my street-door astonish you?"

"A little," I confessed.

"It is very simple. The button you touch outside is electric; it opens
the door and at the same time rings the bell in my study, thus
informing me of a visitor. When the visitor steps across the threshold
he treads, whether he will or no, on another apparatus, which closes
the door behind him and rings another bell in my page's room, who
immediately comes to me for orders. You see how easy? And from within
it is managed in almost the same manner."

And he touched a handle similar to the one outside, and the door opened
instantly. Heliobas held out his hand--that hand which a few minutes
previously had exercised such strange authority over me.

"Good-bye, mademoiselle. You are not afraid of me now?"

I laughed. "I do not think I was ever really afraid of you," I said.
"If I was, I am not so any longer. You have promised me health, and
that promise is sufficient to give me entire courage."

"That is well," said Heliobas. "Courage and hope in themselves are the
precursors of physical and mental energy. Remember to-morrow at five,
and do not keep late hours to-night. I should advise you to be in bed
by ten at the latest."

I agreed to this, and we shook hands and parted. I walked blithely
along, back to the Avenue du Midi, where, on my arrival indoors, I
found a letter from Mrs. Everard. She wrote "in haste" to give me the
names of some friends of hers whom she had discovered, through the
"American Register," to be staying at the Grand Hotel. She begged me to
call upon them, and enclosed two letters of introduction for the
purpose. She concluded her epistle by saying:


"Raffaello Cellini has been invisible ever since your departure, but
our inimitable waiter, Alphonse, says he is very busy finishing a
picture for the Salon--something that we have never seen. I shall
intrude myself into his studio soon on some pretence or other, and will
then let you know all about it. In the meantime, believe me,

"Your ever devoted friend,  AMY."


I answered this letter, and then spent a pleasant evening at the
Pension, chatting sociably with Madame Denise and another cheery little
Frenchwoman, a day governess, who boarded there, and who had no end of
droll experiences to relate, her enviable temperament being to always
see the humorous side of life. I thoroughly enjoyed her sparkling
chatter and her expressive gesticulations, and we all three made
ourselves merry till bedtime. Acting on the advice of Heliobas, I
retired early to my room, where a warm bath had been prepared in
compliance with my orders. I uncorked the glass tube No. 1, and poured
the colourless fluid it contained into the water, which immediately
bubbled gently, as though beginning to boil. After watching it for a
minute or two, and observing that this seething movement steadily
continued, I undressed quickly and stepped in. Never shall I forget the
exquisite sensation I experienced! I can only describe it as the poor
little Doll's Dressmaker in "Our Mutual Friend" described her angel
visitants, her "blessed children," who used to come and "take her up
and make her light." If my body had been composed of no grosser matter
than fire and air, I could not have felt more weightless, more buoyant,
more thoroughly exhilarated than when, at the end of the prescribed
five minutes, I got out of that marvellous bath of healing! As I
prepared for bed, I noticed that the bubbling of the water had entirely
ceased; but this was easy of comprehension, for if it had contained
electricity, as I supposed, my body had absorbed it by contact, which
would account for the movement being stilled. I now took the second
little phial, and prepared it as I had been told. This time the fluid
was motionless. I noticed it was very faintly tinged with amber. I
drank it off--it was perfectly tasteless. Once in bed, I seemed to have
no power to think any more--my eyes closed readily--the slumber of a
year-old child, as Heliobas had said, came upon me with resistless and
sudden force, and I remembered no more.




CHAPTER VII.

ZARA AND PRINCE IVAN.


The sun poured brilliantly into my room when I awoke the next morning.
I was free from all my customary aches and pains, and a delightful
sense of vigour and elasticity pervaded my frame. I rose at once, and,
looking at my watch, found to my amazement that it was twelve o'clock
in the day! Hastily throwing on my dressing-gown, I rang the bell, and
the servant appeared.

"Is it actually mid-day?" I asked her. "Why did you not call me?"

The girl smiled apologetically.

"I did knock at mademoiselle's door, but she gave me no answer. Madame
Denise came up also, and entered the room; but seeing mademoiselle in
so sound a sleep, she said it was a pity to disturb mademoiselle."

Which statement good Madame Denise, toiling upstairs just then with
difficulty, she being stout and short of breath, confirmed with many
smiling nods of her head.

"Breakfast shall be served at the instant," she said, rubbing her fat
hands together; "but to disturb you when you slept--ah, Heaven! the
sleep of an infant--I could not do it! I should have been wicked!"

I thanked her for her care of me; I could have kissed her, she looked
so motherly, and kind, and altogether lovable. And I felt so merry and
well! She and the servant retired to prepare my coffee, and I proceeded
to make my toilette. As I brushed out my hair I heard the sound of a
violin. Someone was playing next door. I listened, and recognised a
famous Beethoven Concerto. The unseen musician played brilliantly and
withal tenderly, both touch and tone reminding me of some beautiful
verses in a book of poems I had recently read, called "Love-Letters of
a Violinist," in which the poet [FOOTNOTE: Author of the equally
beautiful idyl, "Gladys the Singer," included in the new American
copyright edition just issued.] talks of his "loved Amati," and says:
"I prayed my prayer. I wove into my song

     Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak,
     The wan despair that words could never speak.
   I prayed as if my spirit did belong
   To some old master who was wise and strong,
     Because he lov'd and suffered, and was weak.

  "I trill'd the notes, and curb'd them to a sigh,
     And when they falter'd most, I made them leap
     Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep
   A young she-devil. I was fired thereby
     To bolder efforts--and a muffled cry
     Came from the strings as if a saint did weep.

  "I changed the theme. I dallied with the bow
     Just time enough to fit it to a mesh
     Of merry tones, and drew it back afresh,
   To talk of truth, and constancy, and woe,
     And life, and love, and madness, and the glow
     Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh."

All my love for music welled freshly up in my heart; I, who had felt
disinclined to touch the piano for months, now longed to try my
strength again upon the familiar and responsive key-board. For a piano
has never been a mere piano to me; it is a friend who answers to my
thought, and whose notes meet my fingers with caressing readiness and
obedience.

Breakfast came, and I took it with great relish. Then, to pass the day,
I went out and called on Mrs. Everard's friends, Mr. and Mrs. Challoner
and their daughters. I found them very agreeable, with that easy
bonhomie and lack of stiffness that distinguishes the best Americans.
Finding out through Mrs. Everard's letter that I was an "artiste" they
at once concluded I must need support and patronage, and with impulsive
large-heartedness were beginning to plan as to the best means of
organizing a concert for me. I was taken by surprise at this, for I had
generally found the exact reverse of this sympathy among English
patrons of art, who were never tired of murmuring the usual platitudes
about there being "so many musicians," "music was overdone,"
"improvising was not understood or cared for," etc., etc.

But these agreeable Americans, as soon as they discovered that I had
not come for any professional reason to Paris, but only to consult a
physician about my health, were actually disappointed.

"Oh, we shall persuade you to give a recital some time!" persisted the
handsome smiling mother of the family. "I know lots of people in Paris.
We'll get it up for you!"

I protested, half laughing, that I had no idea of the kind, but they
were incorrigibly generous.

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Challoner, arranging her diamond rings on her
pretty white hand with pardonable pride. "Brains don't go for nothing
in OUR country. As soon as you are fixed up in health, we'll give you a
grand soiree in Paris, and we'll work up all our folks in the place.
Don't tell me you are not as glad of dollars as any one of us."

"Dollars are very good," I admitted, "but real appreciation is far
better."

"Well, you shall have both from us," said Mrs. Challoner. "And now,
will you stop to luncheon?"

I accepted this invitation, given as it was with the most friendly
affability, and enjoyed myself very much.

"You don't look ill," said the eldest Miss Challoner to me, later on.
"I don't see that you want a physician."

"Oh, I am getting much better now," I replied; "and I hope soon to be
quite well."

"Who's your doctor?"

I hesitated. Somehow the name of Heliobas would not come to my lips.
Fortunately Mrs. Challoner diverted her daughter's attention at this
moment by the announcement that a dressmaker was waiting to see her;
and in the face of such an important visit, no one remembered to ask me
again the name of my medical adviser.

I left the Grand Hotel in good time to prepare for my second visit to
Heliobas. As I was going there to dinner I made a slightly dressy
toilette, if a black silk robe relieved with a cluster of pale pink
roses can be called dressy. This time I drove to the Hotel Mars,
dismissing the coachman, however, before ascending the steps. The door
opened and closed as usual, and the first person I saw in the hall was
Heliobas himself, seated in one of the easy-chairs, reading a volume of
Plato. He rose and greeted me cordially. Before I could speak a word,
he said:

"You need not tell me that you slept well. I see it in your eyes and
face. You feel better?"

My gratitude to him was so great that I found it difficult to express
my thanks. Tears rushed to my eyes, yet I tried to smile, though I
could not speak. He saw my emotion, and continued kindly:

"I am as thankful as you can be for the cure which I see has begun, and
will soon be effected. My sister is waiting to see you. Will you come
to her room?"

We ascended a flight of stairs thickly carpeted, and bordered on each
side by tropical ferns and flowers, placed in exquisitely painted china
pots and vases. I heard the distant singing of many birds mingled with
the ripple and plash of waters. We reached a landing where the
afterglow of the set sun streamed through a high oriel window of richly
stained glass. Turning towards the left, Heliobas drew aside the folds
of some azure satin hangings, and calling in a low voice "Zara!"
motioned me to enter. I stepped into a spacious and lofty apartment
where the light seemed to soften and merge into many shades of opaline
radiance and delicacy--a room the beauty of which would at any other
time have astonished and delighted me, but which now appeared as
nothing beside the surpassing loveliness of the woman who occupied it.
Never shall I behold again any face or form so divinely beautiful! She
was about the medium height of women, but her small finely-shaped head
was set upon so slender and proud a throat that she appeared taller
than she actually was. Her figure was most exquisitely rounded and
proportioned, and she came across the room to give me greeting with a
sort of gliding graceful movement, like that of a stately swan floating
on calm sunlit water. Her complexion was transparently clear--most
purely white, most delicately rosy, Her eyes--large, luminous and dark
as night, fringed with long silky black lashes--looked like

    "Fairy lakes, where tender thoughts
     Swam softly to and fro."

Her rich black hair was arranged a la Marguerite, and hung down in one
long loose thick braid that nearly reached the end of her dress, and
she was attired in a robe of deep old gold Indian silk as soft as
cashmere, which was gathered in round her waist by an antique belt of
curious jewel-work, in which rubies and turquoises seemed to be thickly
studded. On her bosom shone a strange gem, the colour and form of which
I could not determine. It was never the same for two minutes together.
It glowed with many various hues--now bright crimson, now
lightning-blue, sometimes deepening into a rich purple or tawny orange.
Its lustre was intense, almost dazzling to the eye. Its beautiful
wearer gave me welcome with a radiant smile and a few cordial words,
and drawing me by the hand to the low couch she had just vacated, made
me sit down beside her. Heliobas had disappeared.

"And so," said Zara--how soft and full of music was her voice!--"so you
are one of Casimir's patients? I cannot help considering that you are
fortunate in this, for I know my brother's power. If he says he will
cure you, you may be sure he means it. And you are already better, are
you not?"

"Much better," I said, looking earnestly into the lovely star-like eyes
that regarded me with such interest and friendliness. "Indeed, to-day I
have felt so well, that I cannot realize ever having been ill."

"I am very glad," said Zara, "I know you are a musician, and I think
there can be no bitterer fate than for one belonging to your art to be
incapacitated from performance of work by some physical obstacle. Poor
grand old Beethoven! Can anything be more pitiful to think of than his
deafness? Yet how splendidly he bore up against it! And Chopin, too--so
delicate in health that he was too often morbid even in his music.
Strength is needed to accomplish great things--the double strength of
body and soul."

"Are you, too, a musician?" I inquired.

"No. I love music passionately, and I play a little on the organ in our
private chapel; but I follow a different art altogether. I am a mere
imitator of noble form--I am a sculptress."

"You?" I said in some wonder, looking at the very small, beautifully
formed white hand that lay passively on the edge of the couch beside
me. "You make statues in marble like Michael Angelo?"

"Like Angelo?" murmured Zara; and she lowered her brilliant eyes with a
reverential gravity. "No one in these modern days can approach the
immortal splendour of that great master. He must have known heroes and
talked with gods to be able to hew out of the rocks such perfection of
shape and attitude as his 'David.' Alas! my strength of brain and hand
is mere child's play compared to what HAS been done in sculpture, and
what WILL yet be done; still, I love the work for its own sake, and I
am always trying to render a resemblance of--"

Here she broke off abruptly, and a deep blush suffused her cheeks.
Then, looking up suddenly, she took my hand impulsively, and pressed it.

"Be my friend," she said, with a caressing inflection in her rich
voice, "I have no friends of my own sex, and I wish to love you. My
brother has always had so much distrust of the companionship of women
for me. You know his theories; and he has always asserted that the
sphere of thought in which I have lived all my life is so widely apart
from those in which other women exist--that nothing but unhappiness for
me could come out of associating us together. When he told me yesterday
that you were coming to see me to-day, I knew he must have discovered
something in your nature that was not antipathetic to mine; otherwise
he would not have brought you to me. Do you think you can like
me?--perhaps LOVE me after a little while?"

It would have been a cold heart indeed that would not have responded to
such a speech as this, uttered with the pleading prettiness of a loving
child. Besides, I had warmed to her from the first moment I had touched
her hand; and I was overjoyed to think that she was willing to elect me
as a friend. I therefore replied to her words by putting my arm
affectionately round her waist and kissing her. My beautiful, tender
Zara! How innocently happy she seemed to be thus embraced! and how
gently her fragrant lips met mine in that sisterly caress! She leaned
her dark head for a moment on my shoulder, and the mysterious jewel on
her breast flashed into a weird red hue like the light of a stormy
sunset.

"And now we have drawn up, signed, and sealed our compact of
friendship," she said gaily, "will you come and see my studio? There is
nothing in it that deserves to last, I think; still, one has patience
with a child when he builds his brick houses, and you must have equal
patience with me. Come!"

And she led the way through her lovely room, which I now noticed was
full of delicate statuary, fine paintings, and exquisite embroidery,
while flowers were everywhere in abundance. Lifting the hangings at the
farther end of the apartment, she passed, I following, into a lofty
studio, filled with all the appurtenances of the sculptor's art. Here
and there were the usual spectral effects which are always suggested to
the mind by unfinished plaster models--an arm in one place, a head in
another; a torso, or a single hand, protruding ghost-like from a fold
of dark drapery. At the very end of the room stood a large erect
figure, the outlines of which could but dimly be seen through its linen
coverings; and to this work, whatever it was, Zara did not appear
desirous of attracting my attention. She led me to one particular
corner; and, throwing aside a small crimson velvet curtain, said:

"This is the last thing I have finished in marble. I call it
'Approaching Evening.'"

I stood silently before the statue, lost in admiration. I could not
conceive it possible that the fragile little hand of the woman who
stood beside me could have executed such a perfect work. She had
depicted "Evening" as a beautiful nude female figure in the act of
stepping forward on tip-toe; the eyes were half closed, and the sweet
mouth slightly parted in a dreamily serious smile. The right forefinger
was laid lightly on the lips, as though suggesting silence; and in the
left hand was loosely clasped a bunch of poppies. That was all. But the
poetry and force of the whole conception as carried out in the statue
was marvellous.

"Do you like it?" asked Zara, half timidly.

"Like it!" I exclaimed. "It is lovely--wonderful! It is worthy to rank
with the finest Italian masterpieces."

"Oh, no!" remonstrated Zara; "no, indeed! When the great Italian
sculptors lived and worked--ah! one may say with the Scriptures, 'There
were giants in those days.' Giants--veritable ones; and we modernists
are the pigmies. We can only see Art now through the eyes of others who
came before us. We cannot create anything new. We look at painting
through Raphael; sculpture through Angelo; poetry through Shakespeare;
philosophy through Plato. It is all done for us; we are copyists. The
world is getting old--how glorious to have lived when it was young! But
nowadays the very children are blase."

"And you--are not you blase to talk like that, with your genius and all
the world before you?" I asked laughingly, slipping my arm through
hers. "Come, confess!"

Zara looked at me gravely.

"I sincerely hope the world is NOT all before me," she said; "I should
be very sorry if I thought so. To have the world all before you in the
general acceptation of that term means to live long, to barter whatever
genius you have for gold, to hear the fulsome and unmeaning flatteries
of the ignorant, who are as ready with condemnation as praise--to be
envied and maligned by those less lucky than you are. Heaven defend me
from such a fate!"

She spoke with earnestness and solemnity; then, dropping the curtain
before her statue, turned away. I was admiring the vine-wreathed head
of a young Bacchante that stood on a pedestal near me, and was about to
ask Zara what subject she had chosen for the large veiled figure at the
farthest end of her studio, when we were interrupted by the entrance of
the little Greek page whom I had seen on my first visit to the house.
He saluted us both, and addressing himself to Zara, said:

"Monsieur le Comte desires me to tell you, madame, that Prince Ivan
will be present at dinner."

Zara looked somewhat vexed; but the shade of annoyance flitted away
from her fair face like a passing shadow, as she replied quietly:

"Tell Monsieur le Comte, my brother, that I shall be happy to receive
Prince Ivan."

The page bowed deferentially and departed. Zara turned round, and I saw
the jewel on her breast flashing with a steely glitter like the blade
of a sharp sword.

"I do not like Prince Ivan myself," she said; "but he is a singularly
brave and resolute man, and Casimir has some reason for admitting him
to our companionship. Though I greatly doubt if--" Here a flood of
music broke upon our ears like the sound of a distant orchestra. Zara
looked at me and smiled. "Dinner is ready!" she announced; "but you
must not imagine that we keep a band to play us to our table in
triumph. It is simply a musical instrument worked by electricity that
imitates the orchestra; both Casimir and I prefer it to a gong!"

And slipping her arm affectionately through mine, she drew me from the
studio into the passage, and together we went down the staircase into a
large dining-room, rich with oil-paintings and carved oak, where
Heliobas awaited us. Close by him stood another gentleman, who was
introduced to me as Prince Ivan Petroffsky. He was a fine-looking,
handsome-featured young man, of about thirty, tall and
broad-shouldered, though beside the commanding stature of Heliobas, his
figure did not show to so much advantage as it might have done beside a
less imposing contrast. He bowed to me with easy and courteous grace;
but his deeply reverential salute to Zara had something in it of that
humility which a slave might render to a queen. She bent her head
slightly in answer, and still holding me by the hand, moved to her seat
at the bottom of the table, while her brother took the head. My seat
was at the right hand of Heliobas, Prince Ivan's at the left, so that
we directly faced each other.

There were two men-servants in attendance, dressed in dark livery, who
waited upon us with noiseless alacrity. The dinner was exceedingly
choice; there was nothing coarse or vulgar in the dishes--no great
heavy joints swimming in thin gravy a la Anglaise; no tureens of
unpalatable sauce; no clumsy decanters filled with burning sherry or
drowsy port. The table itself was laid out in the most perfect taste,
with the finest Venetian glass and old Dresden ware, in which tempting
fruits gleamed amid clusters of glossy dark leaves. Flowers in tall
vases bloomed wherever they could be placed effectively; and in the
centre of the board a small fountain played, tinkling as it rose and
fell like a very faintly echoing fairy chime. The wines that were
served to us were most delicious, though their flavour was quite
unknown to me--one in especial, of a pale pink colour, that sparkled
slightly as it was poured into my glass, seemed to me a kind of nectar
of the gods, so soft it was to the palate. The conversation, at first
somewhat desultory, grew more concentrated as the time went on, though
Zara spoke little and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts more than
once. The Prince, warmed with the wine and the general good cheer,
became witty and amusing in his conversation; he was a man who had
evidently seen a good deal of the world, and who was accustomed to take
everything in life a la bagatelle. He told us gay stories of his life
in St. Petersburg; of the pranks he had played in the Florentine
Carnival; of his journey to the American States, and his narrow escape
from the matrimonial clutches of a Boston heiress.

Heliobas listened to him with a sort of indulgent kindness, only
smiling now and then at the preposterous puns the young man would
insist on making at every opportunity that presented itself.

"You are a lucky fellow, Ivan," he said at last. "You like the good
things of life, and you have got them all without any trouble on your
own part. You are one of those men who have absolutely nothing to wish
for."

Prince Ivan frowned and pulled his dark moustache with no very
satisfied air.

"I am not so sure about that," he returned. "No one is contented in
this world, I believe. There is always something left to desire, and
the last thing longed for always seems the most necessary to happiness."

"The truest philosophy," said Heliobas, "is not to long for anything in
particular, but to accept everything as it comes, and find out the
reason of its coming."

"What do you mean by 'the reason of its coming'?" questioned Prince
Ivan. "Do you know, Casimir, I find you sometimes as puzzling as
Socrates."

"Socrates?--Socrates was as clear as a drop of morning dew, my dear
fellow," replied Heliobas. "There was nothing puzzling about him. His
remarks were all true and trenchant--hitting smartly home to the heart
like daggers plunged down to the hilt. That was the worst of him--he
was too clear--too honest--too disdainful of opinions. Society does not
love such men. What do I mean, you ask, by accepting everything as it
comes, and trying to find out the reason of its coming? Why, I mean
what I say. Each circumstance that happens to each one of us brings its
own special lesson and meaning--forms a link or part of a link in the
chain of our existence. It seems nothing to you that you walk down a
particular street at a particular hour, and yet that slight action of
yours may lead to a result you wot not of. 'Accept the hint of each new
experience,' says the American imitator of Plato--Emerson. If this
advice is faithfully followed, we all have enough to occupy us busily
from the cradle to the grave."

Prince Ivan looked at Zara, who sat quietly thoughtful, only lifting
her bright eyes now and then to glance at her brother as he spoke.

"I tell you," he said, with sudden moroseness, "there are some hints
that we cannot accept--some circumstances that we must not yield to.
Why should a man, for instance, be subjected to an undeserved and
bitter disappointment?"

"Because," said Zara, joining in the conversation for the first time,
"he has most likely desired what he is not fated to obtain."

The Prince bit his lips, and gave a forced laugh.

"I know, madame, you are against me in all our arguments," he observed,
with some bitterness in his tone. "As Casimir suggests, I am a bad
philosopher. I do not pretend to more than the ordinary attributes of
an ordinary man; it is fortunate, if I may be permitted to say so, that
the rest of the word's inhabitants are very like me, for if everyone
reached to the sublime heights of science and knowledge that you and
your brother have attained---"

"The course of human destiny would run out, and Paradise would be an
established fact," laughed Heliobas. "Come, Ivan! You are a true
Epicurean. Have some more wine, and a truce to discussions for the
present." And, beckoning to one of the servants, he ordered the
Prince's glass to be refilled.

Dessert was now served, and luscious fruits in profusion, including
peaches, bananas, plantains, green figs, melons, pine-apples, and
magnificent grapes, were offered for our choice. As I made a selection
for my own plate, I became aware of something soft rubbing itself
gently against my dress; and looking down, I saw the noble head and
dark intelligent eyes of my old acquaintance Leo, whom I had last met
at Cannes. I gave an exclamation of pleasure, and the dog, encouraged,
stood up and laid a caressing paw on my arm.

"You know Leo, of course," said Heliobas, turning to me. "He went to
see Raffaello while you were at Cannes. He is a wonderful animal--more
valuable to me than his weight in gold."

Prince Ivan, whose transient moodiness had passed away like a bad devil
exorcised by the power of good wine, joined heartily in the praise
bestowed on this four-footed friend of the family.

"It was really through Leo," he said, "that you were induced to follow
out your experiments in human electricity, Casimir, was it not?"

"Yes," replied Heliobas, calling the dog, who went to him immediately
to be fondled. "I should never have been much encouraged in my
researches, had he not been at hand. I feared to experimentalize much
on my sister, she being young at the time--and women are always frail
of construction--but Leo was willing and ready to be a victim to
science, if necessary. Instead of a martyr he is a living triumph--are
you not, old boy?" he continued, stroking the silky coat of the animal,
who responded with a short low bark of satisfaction.

My curiosity was much excited by these remarks, and I said eagerly:

"Will you tell me in what way Leo has been useful to you? I have a
great affection for dogs, and I never tire of hearing stories of their
wonderful intelligence."

"I will certainly tell you," replied Heliobas. "To some people the
story might appear improbable, but it is perfectly true and at the same
time simple of comprehension. When I was a very young man, younger than
Prince Ivan, I absorbed myself in the study of electricity--its
wonderful powers, and its various capabilities. From the consideration
of electricity in the different forms by which it is known to civilized
Europe, I began to look back through history, to what are ignorantly
called 'the dark ages,' but which might more justly be termed the
enlightened youth of the world. I found that the force of electricity
was well understood by the ancients--better understood by them, in
fact, than it is by the scientists of our day. The 'MENE, MENE, TEKEL,
UPHARSIN' that glittered in unearthly characters on the wall at
Belshazzar's feast, was written by electricity; and the Chaldean kings
and priests understood a great many secrets of another form of electric
force which the world to-day scoffs at and almost ignores--I mean human
electricity, which we all possess, but which we do not all cultivate
within us. When once I realized the existence of the fact of human
electric force, I applied the discovery to myself, and spared no pains
to foster and educate whatever germ of this power lay within me. I
succeeded with more ease and celerity than I had imagined possible. At
the time I pursued these studies, Leo here was quite a young dog, full
of the clumsy playfulness and untrained ignorance of a Newfoundland
puppy. One day I was very busy reading an interesting Sanskrit scroll
which treated of ancient medicines and remedies, and Leo was gambolling
in his awkward way about the room, playing with an old slipper and
worrying it with his teeth. The noise he made irritated and disturbed
me, and I rose in my chair and called him by name, somewhat angrily. He
paused in his game and looked up--his eyes met mine exactly. His head
drooped; he shivered uneasily, whined, and lay down motionless. He
never stirred once from the position he had taken, till I gave him
permission--and remember, he was untrained. This strange behaviour led
me to try other experiments with him, and all succeeded. I gradually
led him up to the point I desired--that is, _I_ FORCED HIM TO RECEIVE
MY THOUGHT AND ACT UPON IT, as far as his canine capabilities could do,
and he has never once failed. It is sufficient for me to strongly WILL
him to do a certain thing, and I can convey that command of mine to his
brain without uttering a single word, and he will obey me."

I suppose I showed surprise and incredulity in my face, for Heliobas
smiled at me and continued:

"I will put him to the proof at any time you like. If you wish him to
fetch anything that he is physically able to carry, and will write the
name of whatever it is on a slip of paper, just for me to know what you
require, I guarantee Leo's obedience."

I looked at Zara, and she laughed.

"It seems like magic to you, does it not?" she said; "but I assure you
it is quite true."

"I am bound to admit," said Prince Ivan, "that I once doubted both Leo
and his master, but I am quite converted. Here, mademoiselle," he
continued, handing me a leaf from his pocket-book and a pencil--"write
down something that you want; only don't send the dog to Italy on an
errand just now, as we want him back before we adjourn to the
drawing-room."

I remembered that I had left an embroidered handkerchief on the couch
in Zara's room, and I wrote this down on the paper, which I passed to
Heliobas. He glanced at it and tore it up. Leo was indulging himself
with a bone under the table, but came instantly to his master's call.
Heliobas took the dog's head between his two hands, and gazed steadily
into the grave brown eyes that regarded him with equal steadiness. This
interchange of looks lasted but a few seconds. Leo left the room,
walking with an unruffled and dignified pace, while we awaited his
return--Heliobas and Zara with indifference, Prince Ivan with
amusement, and I with interest and expectancy. Two or three minutes
elapsed, and the dog returned with the same majestic demeanour,
carrying between his teeth my handkerchief. He came straight to me and
placed it in my hand; shook himself, wagged his tail, and conveying a
perfectly human expression of satisfaction into his face, went under
the table again to his bone. I was utterly amazed, but at the same time
convinced. I had not seen the dog since my arrival in Paris, and it was
impossible for him to have known where to find my handkerchief, or to
recognize it as being mine, unless through the means Heliobas had
explained.

"Can you command human beings so?" I asked, with a slight tremor of
nervousness.

"Not all," returned Heliobas quietly. "In fact, I may say, very few.
Those who are on my own circle of power I can, naturally, draw to or
repel from me; but those who are not, have to be treated by different
means. Sometimes cases occur in which persons, at first NOT on my
circle, are irresistibly attracted to it by a force not mine.
Sometimes, in order to perform a cure, I establish a communication
between myself and a totally alien sphere of thought; and to do this is
a long and laborious effort. But it can be done."

"Then, if it can be done," said Prince Ivan, "why do you not accomplish
it for me?"

"Because you are being forcibly drawn towards me without any effort on
my part," replied Heliobas, with one of his steady, keen looks. "For
what motive I cannot at present determine; but I shall know as soon as
you touch the extreme edge of my circle. You are a long way off it yet,
but you are coming in spite of yourself, Ivan."

The Prince fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and toyed with the fruit
on his plate in a nervous manner.

"If I did not know you to be an absolutely truthful and honourable man,
Casimir," he said, "I should think you were trying to deceive me. But I
have seen what you can do, therefore I must believe you. Still I
confess I do not follow you in your circle theory."

"To begin with," returned Heliobas, "the Universe is a circle.
Everything is circular, from the motion of planets down to the human
eye, or the cup of a flower, or a drop of dew. MY 'circle theory,' as
you call it, applied to human electric force, is very simple; but I
have proved it to be mathematically correct. Every human being is
provided INTERNALLY and EXTERNALLY with a certain amount of
electricity, which is as necessary to existence as the life-blood to
the heart or fresh air to the lungs. Internally it is the germ of a
soul or spirit, and is placed there to be either cultivated or
neglected as suits the WILL of man. It is indestructible; yet, if
neglected, it remains always a germ; and, at the death of the body it
inhabits, goes elsewhere to seek another chance of development. If, on
the contrary, its growth is fostered by a persevering, resolute WILL,
it becomes a spiritual creature, glorious and supremely powerful, for
which a new, brilliant, and endless existence commences when its clay
chrysalis perishes. So much for the INTERNAL electrical force. The
EXTERNAL binds us all by fixed laws, with which our wills have nothing
whatever to do. (Each one of us walks the earth encompassed by an
invisible electric ring--wide or narrow according to our capabilities.
Sometimes our rings meet and form one, as in the case of two absolutely
sympathetic souls, who labour and love together with perfect faith in
each other. Sometimes they clash, and storm ensues, as when a strong
antipathy between persons causes them almost to loathe each other's
presence.) All these human electric rings are capable of attraction and
repulsion. If a man, during his courtship of a woman, experiences once
or twice a sudden instinctive feeling that there is something in her
nature not altogether what he expected or desired, let him take warning
and break off the attachment; for the electric circles do not combine,
and nothing but unhappiness would come from forcing a union. I would
say the same thing to a woman. If my advice were followed, how many
unhappy marriages would be avoided! But you have tempted me to talk too
much, Ivan. I see the ladies wish to adjourn. Shall we go to the
smoking-room for a little, and join them in the drawing-room
afterwards?"

We all rose.

"Well," said the Prince gaily, as he prepared to follow his host, "I
realize one thing which gives me pleasure, Casimir. If in truth I am
being attracted towards your electric circle, I hope I shall reach it
soon, as I shall then, I suppose, be more en rapport with madame, your
sister."

Zara's luminous eyes surveyed him with a sort of queenly pity and
forbearance.

"By the time YOU arrive at that goal, Prince," she said calmly, "it is
most probable that _I_ shall have departed."

And with one arm thrown round my waist, she saluted him gravely, and
left the room with me beside her.

"Would you like to see the chapel on your way to the drawing-room?" she
asked, as we crossed the hall.

I gladly accepted this proposition, and Zara took me down a flight of
marble steps, which terminated in a handsomely-carved oaken door.
Pushing this softly open, she made the sign of the cross and sank on
her knees. I did the same, and then looked with reverential wonder at
the loveliness and serenity of the place. It was small, but lofty, and
the painted dome-shaped roof was supported by eight light marble
columns, wreathed with minutely-carved garlands of vine-leaves. The
chapel was fitted up in accordance with the rites of the Catholic
religion, and before the High Altar and Tabernacle burned seven roseate
lamps, which were suspended from the roof by slender gilt chains. A
large crucifix, bearing a most sorrowful and pathetic figure of Christ,
was hung on one of the side walls; and from a corner altar, shining
with soft blue and silver, an exquisite statue of the Madonna and Child
was dimly seen from where we knelt. A few minutes passed, and Zara
rose. Looking towards the Tabernacle, her lips moved as though
murmuring a prayer, and then, taking me by the hand, she led me gently
out. The heavy oaken door swung softly behind us as we ascended the
chapel steps and re-entered the great hall.

"You are a Catholic, are you not?" then said Zara to me.

"Yes," I answered; "but--"

"But you have doubts sometimes, you would say! Of course. One always
doubts when one sees the dissensions, the hypocrisies, the false
pretences and wickedness of many professing Christians. But Christ and
His religion are living facts, in spite of the suicide of souls He
would gladly save. You must ask Casimir some day about these things; he
will clear up all the knotty points for you. Here we are at the
drawing-room door."

It was the same room into which I had first been shown. Zara seated
herself, and made me occupy a low chair beside her.

"Tell me," she said, "can you not come here and stay with me while you
are under Casimir's treatment?"

I thought of Madame Denise and her Pension.

"I wish I could," I said; "but I fear my friends would want to know
where I am staying, and explanations would have to be given, which I do
not feel disposed to enter upon."

"Why," went on Zara quietly, "you have only to say that you are being
attended by a Dr. Casimir who wishes to have you under his own
supervision, and that you are therefore staying in his house under the
chaperonage of his sister."

I laughed at the idea of Zara playing the chaperon, and told her she
was far too young and beautiful to enact that character.

"Do you know how old I am?" she asked, with a slight smile.

I guessed seventeen, or at any rate not more than twenty.

"I am thirty-eight," said Zara.

Thirty-eight! Impossible! I would not believe it. I could not. I
laughed scornfully at such an absurdity, looking at her as she sat
there a perfect model of youthful grace and loveliness, with her
lustrous eyes and rose-tinted complexion.

"You may doubt me if you choose," she said, still smiling; "but I have
told you the truth. I am thirty-eight years of age according to the
world's counting. What I am, measured by another standard of time,
matters not just now. You see I look young, and, what is more, I am
young. I enjoy my youth. I hear that women of society at thirty-eight
are often faded and blase--what a pity it is that they do not
understand the first laws of self-preservation! But to resume what I
was saying, you know now that I am quite old enough in the eyes of the
world to chaperon you or anybody. You had better arrange to stay here.
Casimir asked me to settle the matter with, you."

As she spoke, Heliobas and Prince Ivan entered. The latter looked
flushed and excited--Heliobas was calm and stately as usual. He
addressed himself to me at once.

"I have ordered my carriage, mademoiselle, to take you back this
evening to the Avenue du Midi. If you will do as Zara tells you, and
explain to your friends the necessity there is for your being under the
personal supervision of your doctor, you will find everything will
arrange itself very naturally. And the sooner you come here the
better--in fact, Zara will expect you here to-morrow early in the
afternoon. I may rely upon you?"

He spoke with a certain air of command, evidently expecting no
resistance on my part. Indeed, why should I resist? Already I loved
Zara, and wished to be more in her company; and then, most probably, my
complete restoration to health would be more successfully and quickly
accomplished if I were actually in the house of the man who had
promised to cure me. Therefore I replied:

"I will do as you wish, monsieur. Having placed myself in your hands, I
must obey. In this particular case," I added, looking at Zara,
"obedience is very agreeable to me."

Heliobas smiled and seemed satisfied. He then took a small goblet from
a side-table and left the room. Returning, however, almost immediately
with the cup filled to the brim, he said, handing it to me:

"Drink this--it is your dose for to-night; and then you will go home,
and straight to bed."

I drank it off at once. It was delicious in flavour--like very fine
Chianti.

"Have you no soothing draught for me?" said Prince Ivan, who had been
turning over a volume of photographs in a sullenly abstracted sort of
way.

"No," replied Heliobas, with a keen glance at him; "the draught fitted
for your present condition might soothe you too thoroughly."

The Prince looked at Zara, but she was mute. She had taken a piece of
silk embroidery from a workbasket near her, and was busily employed
with it. Heliobas advanced and laid his hand on the young man's arm.

"Sing to us, Ivan," he said, in a kind tone. "Sing us one of your wild
Russian airs--Zara loves them, and this young lady would like to hear
your voice before she goes."

The Prince hesitated, and then, with another glance at Zara's bent
head, went to the piano. He had a brilliant touch, and accompanied
himself with great taste and delicacy; but his voice was truly
magnificent--a baritone of deep and mellow quality, sonorous, and at
the same time tender. He sang a French rendering of a Slavonic
love-song, which, as nearly as I can translate it into English, ran as
follows:

  "As the billows fling shells on the shore,
   As the sun poureth light on the sea,
   As a lark on the wing scatters song to the spring,
   So rushes my love to thee.

  "As the ivy clings close to the tower,
   As the dew lieth deep in a flower,
   As the shadow to light, as the day unto night,
   So clings my wild soul to thee!

  "As the moon glitters coldly alone,
   Above earth on her cloud-woven throne,
   As the rocky-bound cave repulses a wave,
   So thy anger repulseth me.

  "As the bitter black frost of a night
   Slays the roses with pitiless might,
   As a sharp dagger-thrust hurls a king to the dust,
   So thy cruelty murdereth me.

  "Yet in spite of thy queenly disdain,
   Thou art seared by my passion and pain;
   Thou shalt hear me repeat, till I die for it, sweet!
   'I love thee! I dare to love THEE!'"

He ended abruptly and with passion, and rose from the piano directly.

I was enthusiastic in my admiration of the song and of the splendid
voice which had given it utterance, and the Prince seemed almost
grateful for the praise accorded him both by Heliobas and myself.

The page entered to announce that "the carriage was waiting for
mademoiselle," and I prepared to leave. Zara kissed me affectionately,
and whispering, "Come early to-morrow," made a graceful salute to
Prince Ivan, and left the room immediately.

Heliobas then offered me his arm to take me to the carriage. Prince
Ivan accompanied us. As the hall door opened in its usual noiseless
manner, I perceived an elegant light brougham drawn by a pair of black
horses, who were giving the coachman a great deal of trouble by the
fretting and spirited manner in which they pawed the stones and
pranced. Before descending the steps I shook hands with Heliobas, and
thanked him for the pleasant evening I had passed.

"We will try to make all your time with us pass as pleasantly," he
returned. "Good-night! What, Ivan," as he perceived the Prince attiring
himself in his great-coat and hat, "are you also going?"

"Yes, I am off," he replied, with a kind of forced gaiety; "I am bad
company for anyone to-night, and I won't inflict myself upon you,
Casimir. Au revoir! I will put mademoiselle into the carriage if she
will permit me."

We went down the steps together, Heliobas watching us from the open
door. As the Prince assisted me into the brougham, he whispered:

"Are you one of them!"

I looked at him in bewilderment.

"One of them!" I repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Never mind," he muttered impatiently, as he made a pretence of
covering me with the fur rugs inside the carriage: "if you are not now,
you will be, or Zara would not have kissed you. If you ever have the
chance ask her to think of me at my best. Good-night."

I was touched and a little sorry for him. I held out my hand in
silence. He pressed it hard, and calling to the coachman, "36, Avenue
du Midi," stood on the pavement bareheaded, looking singularly pale and
grave in the starlight, as the carriage rolled swiftly away, and the
door of the Hotel Mars closed.




CHAPTER VIII.

A SYMPHONY IN THE AIR.


Within a very short time I became a temporary resident in the house of
Heliobas, and felt myself to be perfectly at home there. I had
explained to Madame Denise the cause of my leaving her comfortable
Pension, and she had fully approved of my being under a physician's
personal care in order to ensure rapid recovery; but when she heard the
name of that physician, which I gave (in accordance with Zara's
instructions) as Dr. Casimir, she held up her fat hands in dismay.

"Oh, mademoiselle," she exclaimed, "have you not dread of that terrible
man? Is it not he that is reported to be a cruel mesmerist who
sacrifices everybody--yes, even his own sister, to his medical
experiments? Ah, mon Dieu! it makes me to shudder!"

And she shuddered directly, as a proof of her veracity. I was amused. I
saw in her an example of the common multitude, who are more ready to
believe in vulgar spirit-rapping and mesmerism than to accept an
established scientific fact.

"Do you know Dr. Casimir and his sister?" I asked her.

"I have seen them, mademoiselle; perhaps once--twice--three times! It
is true madame is lovely as an angel; but they say"--here she lowered
her voice mysteriously--"that she is wedded to a devil! It is true,
mademoiselle--all people say so. And Suzanne Michot--a very respectable
young person, mademoiselle, from Auteuil--she was employed at one time
as under-housemaid at Dr. Casimir's, and she had things to say--ah, to
make the blood like ice!"

"What did she say?" I asked with a half smile.

"Well," and Madame Denise came close to me and looked confidential,
"Suzanne--I assure you a most respectable girl--said that one evening
she was crossing the passage near Madame Casimir's boudoir, and she saw
a light like fire coming through the curtains of the portiere. And she
stopped to listen, and she heard a strange music like the sound of
harps. She ventured to go nearer--Suzanne is a brave girl,
mademoiselle, and most virtuous--and to raise the curtain the smallest
portion just to permit the glance of an eye. And--imagine what she saw."

"Well!" I exclaimed impatiently. "WHAT did she see?"

"Ah, mademoiselle, you will not believe me--but Suzanne Michot has
respectable parents, and would not tell a lie--well, Suzanne saw her
mistress, Madame Casimir, standing up near her couch with both arms
extended as to embrace the air. Round her there was--believe it or not,
mademoiselle, as you please--a ring of light like a red fire, which
seemed to grow larger and redder always. All suddenly, madame grew pale
and more pale, and then fell on her couch as one dead, and all the red
fire went out. Suzanne had fear, and she tried to call out--but now see
what happened to Suzanne! She was PUSHED from the spot, mademoiselle,
pushed along as though by some strong personage; yet she saw no one
till she reached her own door, and in her room she fainted from alarm.
The very next morning Dr. Casimir dismissed her, with her full wages
and a handsome present besides; but he LOOKED at her, Suzanne said, in
a manner to make her tremble from head to foot. Now, mademoiselle,
judge yourself whether it is fit for one who is suffering with nerves
to go to so strange a house!"

I laughed. Her story had not the least effect upon me. In fact, I made
up my mind that the so respectable and virtuous Suzanne Michot had been
drinking some of her master's wine. I said:

"Your words only make me more desirous to go, Madame Denise. Besides,
Dr. Casimir has already done me a great deal of good. You must have
heard things of him that are not altogether bad, surely?"

The little woman reflected seriously, and then said, as with some
reluctance:

"It is certainly true, mademoiselle, that in the quarter of the poor he
is much beloved. Jean Duclos--he is a chiffonnier--had his one child
dying of typhoid fever, and he was watching it struggling for breath;
it was at the point to die. Monsieur le Comte Casimir, or Dr.
Casimir--for he is called both--came in all suddenly, and in half an
hour had saved the little one's life. I do not deny that he may have
some good in him, and that he understands medicine; but there is
something wrong--" And Madame Denise shook her head forlornly a great
number of times.

None of her statements deterred me from my intention, and I was
delighted when I found myself fairly installed at the Hotel Mars. Zara
gave me a beautiful room next to her own; she had taken pains to fit it
up herself with everything that was in accordance with my particular
tastes, such as a choice selection of books; music, including many of
the fascinating scores of Schubert and Wagner; writing materials; and a
pretty, full-toned pianette. My window looked out on a small courtyard,
which had been covered over with glass and transformed into a
conservatory. I could enter it by going down a few steps, and could
have the satisfaction of gathering roses and lilies of the valley,
while outside the east wind blew and the cold snowflakes fell over
Paris. I wrote to Mrs. Everard from my retreat, and I also informed the
Challoners where they could find me if they wanted me. These duties
done, I gave myself up to enjoyment. Zara and I became inseparables; we
worked together, read together, and together every morning gave those
finishing-touches to the ordering and arrangement of the household
which are essentially feminine, and which not the wisest philosopher in
all the world has been, or ever will be, able to accomplish
successfully. We grew to love each other dearly, with that ungrudging,
sympathizing, confiding friendship that is very rarely found between
two women. In the meantime my cure went on rapidly. Every night on
retiring to rest Heliobas prepared a medicinal dose for me, of the
qualities of which I was absolutely ignorant, but which I took
trustingly from his hand. Every morning a different little phial of
liquid was placed in the bathroom for me to empty into the water of my
daily bath, and every hour I grew better, brighter, and stronger. The
natural vivacity of my temperament returned to me; I suffered no pain,
no anxiety, no depression, and I slept as soundly as a child, unvisited
by a single dream. The mere fact of my being alive became a joy to me;
I felt grateful for everything--for my eyesight, my speech, my hearing,
my touch--because all my senses seemed to be sharpened and invigorated
and braced up to the keenest delight. This happy condition of my system
did not come suddenly--sudden cures mean sudden relapses; it was a
gradual, steady, ever-increasing, reliable recovery.

I found the society of Heliobas and his sister very fascinating. Their
conversation was both thoughtful and brilliant, their manners were
evenly gracious and kindly, and the life they led was a model of
perfect household peace and harmony. There was never a fuss about
anything: the domestic arrangements seemed to work on smoothly oile

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