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.